Flares
by Sparkly Faerie
Summary: AU. In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.
1. Chapter One

**Where is my opening spiel? I don't know.**

**AU THG fic. Jumping onto the wagon of bands.**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own The Hunger Games or anything associated with it. All rights to The Hunger Games and affiliated products belong to Susanne Collins, Lionsgate, and the other proper entities.

**Summary:** In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.

**Rating:** T (For now)

**Genre:** Action/Drama/Romance

**Pairing: **Katniss/Peeta

**Warnings:** None.

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><p><strong>Flares<strong>

**Chapter One**

Looking out over the crowd is… surreal.

That's the only thing I can think of as Mayor Undersee begins to read the history of Panem. I wonder how Haymitch stands it every year—staring out into all the terrified faces of the children of the District and knowing that you're the only one that's even close to safe. Knowing the horrors that are coming for two of them in the coming weeks. Knowing that they'll most likely die. Knowing that if, by some miracle, they survive, they will be forced to relive those horrors in their dreams almost every night.

Maybe that's why he's so drunk that the Mayor and I had to help him onto the stage.

And the Quarter Quells are supposed to be the worst. I think of the way my District partner last year, Dane White, had died in the fire that drove me toward the Careers—that death was _tame_ compared to what Haymitch has told me to expect this year.

There's only one glass ball this year; this Quarter Quell is an all-boys event. Three boys from each District will go to the Capitol and all but one of the thirty-six will die horrible, bloody, gruesome deaths.

At least I don't have to worry about Prim this year.

The Mayor finishes and Effie stands up to the podium to give her greetings. I do my best not to glare at the back of her head. She's less upbeat than usual, her disappointment at not getting promoted to a better district this year still fresh. Children _die_ in this tournament, and all _she_ can think of is her career opportunities. It makes me physically ill. I mean, once you look past all the vain and self-centred Capitol airs that she puts on, I actually _like_ Effie. She really seemed to care about me last year (although I can't say the same for Dane). But every now and again she'll make a comment, or give a certain look, that will remind me that she's from the Capitol. That she's not really my friend. That this is all exciting for her. That children dying is great entertainment for her.

As she reaches into the bowl for the first name, I clench my hands in my lap and silently beg anyone who may be listening that Gale isn't reaped. He turns nineteen next month. It's his last year. Please. Just please, give me this.

The first boy is Ryan Greene; a Seam kid, about fifteen. I don't know him. I've seen him around school, he was two grades lower than me, but other than that I have no clue who he is. Scrawny, like all the kids from the Seam, he's also short and has a sort of hollow look about him.

A terrible part of my mind whispers that he wont last long.

The second boy is also from the Seam; he's taller but even more emaciated than his first partner. Cole Hawthorne is Gale's seventeen-year-old cousin, but we've never met. They're on opposite sides of a family feud, so I know that Gale doesn't really care about him, but still. At the name 'Hawthorne', though, my heart starts to race.

Just one more.

Please not Gale.

_Please_ not Gale.

_Please_.

I take a deep breath as Effie unrolls the slip of paper. The name she reads off isn't Gale's—but it's almost as bad.

"Peeta Mellark!"

I can practically feel the blood drain from my cheeks as the boy makes his way to the stage. Unlike the other two, he's from Town—he stands about a head taller than me, with broad shoulders and strong forearms. Unlike the kids from the Seam, he's grown up with enough to eat—meaning that, out of the three of the Tributes on the stage, he's the only one with any real muscle. I can see them where he'd rolled up his sleeves earlier. The blonde hair and blue eyes that are so typical of the Town families will attract sponsors, and the people of the Capitol tend to value that look over the darker hair and skin and grey eyes that the Seam kids get.

When Haymitch sobers up, he's going to suggest that we concentrate on trying to save Peeta.

And, if I'm honest, if any of them have a chance, it's him.

I'm not listening to the Mayor as he reads the Treaty of Treason. All I can think about is the fact that at least two, if not all three, of these boys are going to die in a few week's time. When the Mayor finishes, the three boys shake hands with each other, and then the anthem plays before they're escorted into the Justice Building. Afterwards, I'm shaking Haymitch awake from the chair next to me. I'm surprised he didn't snore.

"Haymitch!" I hiss at him. "Haymitch, wake up! It's over!"

"Wuzzat?" He gives a start and blinks around the Square, where people are dissipating. The chatter has increased in volume, people laughing with relief—except the three families. They're standing huddled together in front of the stage, waiting to be escorted into the Justice Building to say goodbye.

"The Reaping is finished." I tell him. "Come on, get up. We've got an hour to get you sobered up before we have to be on the train."

"Who was it this year?" He slurs as we carefully make our way down the stairs.

"Two Seam kids and a Town kid." I tell him as we make our way over to where my mother, Prim and Gale stand huddled.

"Town kid?" Haymitch squints. I don't blame him for being confused. It's not often that a Town kid gets Reaped—not impossible, but the high numbers of Seam kids signing up for tesserae make it incredibly rare.

"Yep." We reach my family, and my mother moves to take him from me. Haymitch fights us on it, but my family have kind of taken responsibility for him over the last twelve months. Like Effie, once I learned to look past his huge, gaping personality flaws, I actually _like _him. My mother starts to lead him off with soft, persuasive words, and I know that he'll be at least coherent in an hour. I turn to Gale.

"How's it feel?" I ask him with a fake grin. "You survived your last Reaping."

"Pretty great." He admits. He's not smiling. "I just wish my brothers and sister…"

"I know the feeling." I shoot a glance at Prim, who's following my mother. Gale and I set off back up to the Victor's Village behind them. This is the last time we'll see each other for however many weeks it takes for the Games to finish. I volunteered for her last year, and I didn't have to worry about her _this _year—the money that I got for winning the Games protects her from ever needing to take tesserae. But just being related to a Victor increases a kid's chance of being Reaped. Especially if the Victor loves them more than life itself.

"Listen, about my cousin…" he clears his throat, and I can't help but keep my eyes trained on the footpath. "Don't think that… you have any sort of obligation to prioritise him over the others, or anything. Because of me and my family."

"I don't." I tell him, wincing at how heartless it sounds. "I mean, we've got three Tributes to try to bring home."

Gale huffs a sigh. "I'm not stupid, Katniss." He points out. Like I need reminding. "It's pretty obvious that mentors pick one Tribute to focus on and try to save _them_. It happened last year." He's referring to the fact that I was the only one out of the District Twelve Tributes last year that got any gifts. The boy hadn't gotten anything, while I had gotten medicine, arrows and food when I needed them. I hadn't really wanted for much in the arena after I'd found water and claimed the bow from the girl from District One. Most of the other Tributes had killed each other off until Cato and I had come face to face at the Cornucopia and he had been killed by the mutts.

"I know." I admit.

"If any of them have a chance," it sounds like the words are being dragged from his lips now. I can hear the distaste, "it's that Mellark guy."

"I know." I repeat. "I think that's what Haymitch is going to say, too."

We quieten as we reach my house and step inside. My mother has Haymitch at the table, and she's making up some kind of tea for him. Prim is buttering some bread, and I snatch two pieces off the plate when her back is turned before hurrying up the stairs. Gale follows, and I give him one.

Gale sits on the edge of my bed while I spend the next twenty minutes going over my luggage and making sure that I have everything I'll need. I have four bags—three of them packed full of clothing that Cinna, my old stylist, has sent me over the year. I've never worn a lot of it, preferring to fit in with everyone else in District Twelve as much as I can—but I will be expected to dress and conduct myself like a 'proper' Victor the second I step out of this house.

After making sure that my luggage is in order, I say goodbye to Gale as he leaves and step into the shower to wash the dirt from the Reaping off my skin. I showered this morning, so I don't really _need_ to wash again, but I've found that showers tend to be pretty relaxing. As I spend the next twenty minutes standing under the warm stream, I can almost ignore the nausea that rolls around my stomach. Last year, I'd only had to worry about what was coming _inside_ the arena. This year, I have to deal with the responsibility of keeping three boys alive. I'm only seventeen—I don't know that any potential sponsors are going to take me seriously when I try to strike deals with them. Which I'll probably fail at, anyway, given my non-existent people skills.

I dry myself with a towel and dress in the white summer dress that Cinna had told me to wear when he called this morning. Apparently, the skirt-suit he'd instructed me to wear for the Reaping is not acceptable for the train ride. He has also instructed me to _blow dry_ my hair—something I _despise_ doing. It's one thing in the Capitol showers, where you just stand there and let the shower do its work, but it's another to sit at a vanity table and painstakingly dry each section of hair with a ridiculously noisy machine.

But I do it.

I also paint my lips red, despite my distaste. I really _hate_ cosmetics. But the fear of angering the Capitol, and putting Prim in danger, keeps my hand moving to wield the brush with the liquid lipstick over my mouth. I'm just glad I apparently don't have to draw out my eyes. And that I'd gotten my mother to help me wax all the hair from my body last night. My old prep team would have had a fit if they could have seen the state of my legs.

When I'm done, and my hair is resting straight down my back—left out, again, as per instructions—I grab the wide-brimmed straw hat on the bedside table and place it on my head. I examine the end result. It looks pretty, but it's not my face. I've come to associate my looks with wherever I am at the time. This is Capitol-Katniss, the Victor, who smiles and shakes hands and tries _so desperately_ not to step out of line. Yesterday—this morning, even—I was just Katniss, free to go around in my braid and old Seam shirt and trousers, trying desperately not to think about what I've been through.

But for now, I close the door on Katniss. It's time for Capitol-Katniss to make her first appearance since the Victory Tour. And to keep her family safe for another year.

Prim knocks on my door as I'm taking the hat off and smoothing my hair back down. She makes some compliment about my looks, but I brush it off as I grab two of my bags and lug them downstairs. There's a Peacekeeper at the door with a wagon, ready to take mine and Haymitch's things down to the Station. He must have gone home, because I don't see him in the kitchen when I glance in on my way upstairs to get the other two bags.

With all four of my bags in the wagon, I slip on a pair of straw sandals and kiss my mother and Prim goodbye. Then I step outside, replace my hat back on my head, and ignore the Peacekeeper's outstretched hand as I climb into the wagon and take my seat. Less than thirty seconds later, Haymitch is sitting across from me, looking as sober as I've seen him since the Tour.

"Well," I spread my arms open for him to take in the sight of me as the cart starts off with a jolt, "do I look acceptable?"

He gives me a once-over. From anyone else, I would have felt violated. But I trust Haymitch, and he's the only one I can really count on to make sure I don't screw up as a Mentor. "Very nice." He nods. "Cinna'll be happy when he sees you on screen."

We're silent for the rest of the five-minute trip. Stepping down from the wagon at the station, we're immediately swarmed by reporters—neither of us speaks to them, but once my bags are safely stowed aboard I make sure to plaster a bright smile across my face and lean out of the window to wave at them. The clicking of the cameras and multiple flashes momentarily dazes me as I pull my head back in.

I'm watching through the tinted windows from my compartment as the three boys are brought up. Cole is glaring at everything and everyone. Ryan looks pale, like he's going to be sick. And Peeta looks as if he's been… crying? I can't be sure, but it looks like he's tried to repair his face at least a little, and he's taking deep breaths as he steps into the train behind the other two.

It only takes about ten seconds for the doors to close and for the train to start moving. I sit on the chair in my room and take deep breaths as I try to calm myself. This is it. The brief hour I had at home was merely a respite. The nightmare is back in full swing.

About ten minutes into the train ride, Haymitch enters my room.

"Ever hear of knocking?" I ask irritably, not bothering to look away from the countryside zipping past outside. He ignores me and sits on my bed. I finally turn away from the window and look at him. "What?"

"We have to talk about what we're gonna do." He says bluntly. "I've just met the kids—"

"Two of them are my age." I point out. "They're hardly kids."

"—and I've decided." He ignores me. "We're going to have to concentrate on the Town kid. The little one'll be lucky to make it through the bloodbath and the tall one is overconfident and angry. If the Tributes don't kill him the Capitol will."

"So we just abandon them?" I sigh.

"No." He shakes his head. "We pick our battles. The other two are a lost cause. He's got the best shot."

I bite my lip, my eyes straying back to the window. "Well, you're the experienced one."

"Damn straight." He stands. "I wont guarantee that we can bring him out, but…"

"We can try." I finish in a flat voice.

"Right." Haymitch starts toward the door. "But remember; we act like we're going to help them all." A pause. "Dinner's in half an hour." And then he was gone.

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><p><strong>Here's me, trying to keep characters in-character for an extended length of time. Wish me luck.<strong>

**Reviews are love!**

**Until next time,  
>Sparkly Faerie<strong>


	2. Chapter Two

**Wow! I didn't expect such a response in the first few days! I was hoping for maybe two or three reviews, not eleven!**

**I was going to hold onto this chapter until next Friday, but I'm so excited with all the reviews that I've gotten and all the new stills that were on Tumblr today, I thought I might put this out early.**

**Bear with me, a good chunk of this is me re-writing some of the canon events. Sigh.**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own The Hunger Games or anything associated with it. All rights to The Hunger Games and affiliated products belong to Susanne Collins, Lionsgate, and the other proper entities.

**Summary:** In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.

**Rating:** T (For now)

**Genre:** Action/Drama/Romance

**Pairing: **Katniss/Peeta

**Warnings:** None.

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><p><strong>Flares<strong>

**Chapter Two**

The sky slowly grows overcast as we get closer and closer to the Capitol. Cinna told me this morning, over the phone, that the Capitol was preparing for a wet opening ceremony this year—it had been raining there all week. I'm kind of glad for it—it means I wont be expected to hang around the station and mingle with reporters if it's pouring buckets on our heads. They'll expect me to fuss about the damage the water will do to my hair and face, and I will gladly take advantage of that fact if it means I get out of the press' presence.

I jump at a light rapping on my door. Effie waits a moment before poking her head into my room. "Dinner is being served in the dining car." She tells me brightly, smiling.

"I'll be there in five minutes." I close the window and start rooting through a drawer in the dresser. "Just let me fix my hair."

I can tell I've given the right excuse as Effie takes in my windblown hair and nods with an approving smile. As she snaps the door shut, humming to herself, I find the hairbrush.

True to my word, my hair is tamed and braided down my back, and I am entering the dining car in four and a half minutes. Haymitch isn't here yet. The three boys are seated around the table, stuffing their faces, and Effie is watching them with horror on her face. I almost laugh. Peeta is using utensils, but the two Seam boys are eating with their fingers.

"You might want to take it easy." I tell them, remembering how close I came to throwing up last year. I slide into my chair and start to serve myself a small platter of food to start off with. They stare at me.

"Why?" Cole demands, frowning at me. Other than the dark hair, grey eyes and olive skin that the whole Seam shares, he looks nothing like his cousin, and I don't feel the least bit bad about the tiny flicker of annoyance I feel at him. He obviously does not take me seriously as a mentor.

"Because you'll throw up if you eat too much of it." I say simply, cutting into a piece of chicken. "Capitol food is good, but it's rich. You should give it a day or two to get used to it before you really stuff yourselves to bursting." Cole snorts and goes back to his dinner with just as much gusto as before, but I'm pleased to see that the other two have slowed down, at least.

Where's Haymitch? If I'm going to assert any authority over these boys as their mentor I'm going to need his support. He's gotten a _lot_ more respect this year, since bringing me home from the Games—his opinion will count for something to these boys.

The food is just as good as I remember, and Effie keeps up a steady stream of chatter that neither the boys nor I are interested in. We tune her out until Haymitch finally makes an appearance—he's been drinking again. Thankfully, he does _not_ throw up, and sinks into the chair at my right.

The boys look at him with apprehension—the youngest looks downright petrified. I don't blame them. Last year, when it had been me and Dane who were sitting where they are now, Haymitch had stumbled over his own feet, vomited, and fell _in_ the mess. We'd had to call the Capitol people to take him back to his room and wash him, but the reek of vomit never left the car. I hadn't felt very confident until he'd started taking me seriously after he'd pissed me off enough to throw my knife into the wall behind his head.

I roll my eyes and butter one of the dinner rolls for him, shoving it in his hands. "Eat something, Haymitch." I say brusquely.

Effie's chatter is subdued now, and soon enough we're finishing dessert and moving into the other car to watch the recap of the reapings. The boys sit together on the couch—I feel a somewhat vindictive satisfaction seeing that Cole looks like he's having a little difficulty holding onto his dinner—while Haymitch drops into an armchair. Effie takes the other, and I perch on her armrest to watch the boys called one by one.

Like last year, a couple stand out. Most of the volunteers from Districts One, Two and Four are huge bruisers, tall and muscled, and I notice the three on the couch tensing. There's a boy from Seven who looks a lot younger than twelve (my stomach clenches painfully at the sight of him), two of the three from Nine are so emaciated that I'm surprised they're still alive.

One of the boys from Eleven has the condition that some babies are born with when their mother is too old to be having children. The round-faced boy, about fifteen years old, smiles at the crowd, and waves as they reluctantly applaud him. I feel a stinging in my nose when he seems to understand that whatever is happening is not a good thing. He tries to reach a woman, who I can only guess is his mother, when he notices that she's crying. His desperate cries are ringing in my head when the Peacekeepers drag him away, and the doors of the Justice Building are slammed behind him. We turn it off after watching the District Twelve reaping and sit in silence.

"Well," Effie breaks the silence after a few minutes, "I think it's time we all headed to bed! Tomorrow's going to be a big, big day!"

Haymitch and I stay as she shoos the three boys toward their sleeping quarters. I turn sideways and slip into the seat, legs hanging over the arm, and stare at the ceiling. I'm not tired, but I know I'll have to be up until late tomorrow, so I should probably be getting all the sleep I can. But I can't turn my mind off. Tomorrow I'll be introduced to the other mentors—people who have known each other for years, who are friends. As we stop to refuel, Haymitch finally speaks.

"You know the Town kid."

I don't remove my eyes from the ceiling. "What makes you think that?"

"The look on your face when his name was called." At least he's not making fun of me. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"I thought you were ignoring the television." I say, instead of denying it. I'd thought I'd kept my face relatively emotionless, but—if you were looking for it—I'd visibly flinched. I was just glad the reporters didn't pick up on it. The last thing I need is publicity like that.

"I'm not stupid." Haymitch grunted. "Go on, then. Tell me."

So I do—I tell the whole story, from start to finish. I've never told anyone this story, and there are few people I trust more than Haymitch—in some weird, twisted way, I trust him more than I trust Gale. It feels good to get it off my chest.

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><p>When I was eleven, my father died in a mine explosion.<p>

My mother collapsed into a depression barely a week after, leaving Prim and I to look after ourselves—for a few weeks, I managed okay with buying and cooking the food, but as the days wore on and my mother refused to speak and barely left her bed, I began to grow terrified. Prim cried and begged and pleaded for our mother to come back to us, but as time wore on I could see that it wasn't happening.

When the money ran out, I started getting desperate. There came a time when all we'd had for three days was boiled water and mint leaves, and every time I moved I could feel the hunger pains shoot through my body. Prim cried herself to sleep, curled up against my mother's chest, manually picking up her hands and wrapping them around her little body. So, on the third day, after school, I took some of Prim's old baby things and tried to sell them in the marketplace.

Looking back on it now, I might have been able to sell them in the Hob. But I was terrified of going to that place without my father, and so I stuck to the legal markets in the Square. No one bought anything that I had to trade, and by the time everyone closed up shop to get home and out of the rain, I'd all but resigned myself to the fact that I would have nothing to take home that day.

I'd stumbled over my own feet and dropped the clothes in the mud. I didn't bother to pick them up—no one wanted those things, and I was terrified that I'd fall into the mud, too, and not be able to get up. I couldn't go home. Not without anything to eat. I couldn't face the disappointment in my sister's eyes—when I'd left that afternoon, I'd told her I was going to get food. She'd be crushed if I came home with nothing.

I took to the alleys behind the merchants' houses. Making sure no one was around, I started lifting the lids off the bins, heart sinking when all I found were empty cans. I didn't know what I was hoping for—some bones with a little meat still left on them? Some partly-rotted vegetables that I might be able to salvage? All I knew was that I was finding nothing.

I'd been at it for a while when, suddenly, a door nearby opened, and there was a merchant woman screeching at me. She told me to get out of it, and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and my God, she was so sick of Seam brats pawing through her rubbish. I stammered out an apology and backed away, trying to block out her angry muttering.

For just a moment, I caught sight of a boy my age watching me from inside the bakery, bathed in the golden light from an open oven. I recognised him from school—he was in my class—but I didn't know his name. I spent most of my time by myself and he stuck with the other kids from town—we'd never spoken. I'd never really even noticed him all that much before.

Our eyes met for a few seconds before his mother called him and he disappeared back inside the bakery. I remember feeling a surge of envy for the Town kids—I was cold, and wet, and hungry and so, so tired. I almost collapsed behind the apple tree next to their pigpen. I'd have to go home with nothing—if I could make it. Suddenly, the Community Home, the one that I'd been so terrified would crush Prim's fragile spirit, didn't seem like such a bad idea. I wouldn't even have minded just… slipping away, sitting there in the rain.

Drowsiness was just beginning to take over when I heard a commotion and shouting back in the bakery. I'd jumped to my feet and prepared to run, thinking the woman was coming to beat me away with a stick or something. Instead, I saw the boy rushing out into the rain, with two large loaves of burned bread in his arms. His mother was screeching all sorts of foul things at him—I couldn't believe it. There was a huge red mark on his cheek.

Had she… what had she hit him with?

I watched him tear pieces of the bread off the burned parts and drop them in the pig's trough. I thought, once he's gone, maybe I might be able to scavenge a handful or two for my sister. I was vaguely aware of his mother going back inside to help a customer around the front. He looked back after her, then turned to look at me. For a second time, our eyes met. Then, without warning, he hurled the first, then the second loaf at my feet and hurried back inside.

On impulse, I snatched them up. Were they… for me? They had to have been. He'd looked right at me before throwing them. He _must_ have meant for me to have them.

I didn't question it any more as I rushed home. The sight of my little sister's face as I practically forced my mother to sit with us at the table and sliced the bread into good-sized chunks is an image that's stayed with me for the last six years.

The next day, I really had meant to thank him, but I couldn't seem to work up the nerve. I didn't even know his name, and he had saved my life, and my sister's life. I caught myself glancing at him at random intervals throughout the day. I was disappointed in myself by the time dismissal had rolled around and I had yet to talk to him.

As I was waiting for Prim by the gates, I looked over at him again—and caught him watching me. He started like a deer, frozen for a moment, before his cheeks flooded pink and he quickly looked away. Blushing, myself, for reasons I couldn't (and still don't) understand, I looked at the ground—and my gaze met a bright yellow dandelion.

It was as if a light bulb switched on inside my head. I picked the flower and pressed it into the top of my braid, and looked around for Prim. The second she exited the building, I grabbed her hand and practically dragged her home for a bucket—we spent the afternoon harvesting the dandelions in the Meadow, and along the fence; it was the first night in weeks we'd had a real meal, gorging ourselves with dandelion greens. The next day, I began hunting; and, from there, I kept my family alive while my mother recovered and we began to live without my father.

I've always associated Peeta Mellark with that memory; the dandelion, the light bulb moment, the spark of hope.

If he hadn't tossed me that bread, I would have died.

I tell Haymitch all this in the silence of the car, the only sounds the wheels underneath us turning. I stare blankly up at the ceiling, my mind consumed with the memory. I'd never thanked him for that—it had taken nearly a year to learn his name. I owe him.

I _hate_ owing people.

As my story winds down, I finally tear my eyes away from the roof of the train car to look at Haymitch. He's watching me with a closed expression on his face. "And that's… it, I guess." I finish lamely.

He gives a small hum of acknowledgement. "So, the long and the short of it is," he finally says, "he saved your life."

"Yeah." I stare at my knees, still propped up against the armrest.

"Right." Haymitch staggers to his feet—he's still not entirely sober, but he's not too drunk to have no memory of our conversation in the morning. "Then I picked the right one."

"Huh?"

"To save." He reminds me. "If you've got an emotional attachment to a Tribute it makes it harder to watch them in the arena—"

"I don't have an emotional attachment to him!" I splutter, mortified to feel my cheeks redden. "I've never even _spoken _to him!"

Haymitch gives me a flat look as he sits back down. "You said it yourself—you feel like you owe him." He pointed out. "It doesn't matter if you've never spoken to him before, there's a feeling there. I'm not saying you're in love with the boy or anything, but I'm sure you took notice whenever he was around. It's human nature, sweetheart."

Thinking about it now, he's right. I try to call to mind all the things I know about him other than his name. I know he's the baker's son, the youngest of three—I presume he's his mother's least favourite, considering all the times he came to school with bruises as a kid. I remember the wrestling match he participated in two years ago for the Under 18's. He'd come in second. Just behind his brother. It had been Peeta who'd eliminated the boy who'd taken out Gale. Other than that… not much. Unless you count the strange sort of compulsion he seemed to have to stare at me—I'd caught him looking at me more than once in school and I never could figure out why. Was he waiting for a 'thank you'?

"I guess I noticed him a little." I admit out loud, but don't elaborate. He doesn't ask for details.

"So, like I was saying," he continued, "being personally connected with a Tribute inside the arena is harder than one you know nothing about." He moves to stand again, "but it's also a bit of an… advantage when it comes to dealing with sponsors."

I look at him curiously. "How?"

"Well, you play it up." Haymitch shrugs. "You're young. Talk about how popular he is. How much you like him. How desperately you wanna bring him home. The sponsors have to like the mentor just as much as the tribute. Play up your connection to him and it might help you reel in more help."

I blink in confusion as Haymitch leaves the car.

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><p><strong>Apologies, again, for the repeat. I kind of needed to establish the bread thing, though, since it's kind of important.<strong>

**Reviews are love!**

**Until next time,  
>Sparkly Faerie<strong>


	3. Chapter Three

**Just so you guys know—don't expect me to always update this quickly. I actually started this story _ages_ ago, and I got a few chapters in before I started posting. We're almost done with my pre-prepared stuff and will catch up to where I'm actually at very soon.**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own The Hunger Games or anything associated with it. All rights to The Hunger Games and affiliated products belong to Susanne Collins, Lionsgate, and the other proper entities.

**Summary:** In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.

**Rating:** T (For now)

**Genre:** Action/Drama/Romance

**Pairing: **Katniss/Peeta

**Warnings:** None.

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><p><strong>Flares<strong>

**Chapter Three**

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Effie excuses herself after finishing her meal to go up to speak with the driver, leaving Haymitch and I with the three boys.

Haymitch takes us all by surprise when he speaks. "We're gonna have to talk about what's gonna happen when we get to the Capitol." He has their attention at once. "You're each gonna get a different stylist—no one has any say on who gets who. And you're probably gonna hate what they do to you, but don't resist."

I think back—this was the same advice he gave me. "Don't complain about what the prep teams do." I hear myself chime in. "Just let them get on with it—the less you complain, the quicker it'll all be over. And they might say something that seems totally insensitive or stupid, but that's just what they know. In their own way, they really _are_ trying to help you."

Cole snorts. "Yeah. Except they can't wait to watch us die."

"And that's another thing—don't go around talking like that." Haymitch points his fork at him, and he and I exchange a glance. Neither of us has said it, but we're sure it was Dane's outspoken attitude that got him killed so quickly last year. "As far as the Capitol is concerned, you should all be grateful that you've been given this honour. You don't have to say you agree with them, just don't contradict it."

"So, what?" Cole demands. "I'm supposed to let them control me for the rest of my life?"

I cut across Haymitch. "Yes." My voice is snappy. "You do what they tell you to protect your family. You think I wanna go around looking like this?" I wave a hand up and down my body. My hair is in two braids today, and I'm wearing a white blouse with dark denim trousers and knee-high leather boots with one-inch heels. Like yesterday, my face has been made up. "You and I were in the same class for eleven years, Cole. Use your head. You know I don't give a damn about how I look. I do what they want me to, because I don't want them to take it out on my family if I screw up."

"Then how come _he_ screws up every year?" He points savagely at Haymitch. Ryan looks between the three of us, like it's some kind of bizarre sparring match. Peeta has fixed his eyes on me, and I fight back a blush. I don't like it when people stare at me.

"Because _I_ have no one to protect." Haymitch's voice has gotten darker. "I screwed up when I was a kid, believe me. And I payed the price. Now," and we can all tell that the door is closed on that particular subject, "another thing. Katniss might be your age," and here he's looking between Cole and Peeta, "but she's _still_ a Victor. And she's _still_ your mentor. I don't wanna hear any more about you disregarding her advice—Cole, I'm looking at you specifically." How did he hear about that? Did Effie tell him? "Out of the four of you, she's the one with the experience here, so you should make use of that knowledge."

"We should be there soon, shouldn't we?" I glance at the clock. I don't remember what time the train pulled into the station last year.

"We should be pulling into the station any minute." Haymitch confirms, just as the world outside the train goes dark. I hate this. I've been in this tunnel four times before—going to the Capitol, and coming home from it for both the Games and the Victor Tour. Both times, all I could think about was my father in the mines. Unable to see the sun. Never coming out again.

Haymitch stands and makes his way back to his room. I've already put my things in order, so I have a few extra moments before I have to make sure my appearance is still satisfactory. I stare at the windows and will the train to move faster. I hate being encased in stone this way.

I blink as the sheets of rain come back into view, and the three boys rush to the windows. The weather is absolutely abysmal, but that hasn't stopped the Capitol citizens from lining the streets to watch the trains roll in. I see many umbrellas lining the streets, all in colours as painful to the eyes as everything else in the city. I'm about to drop my gaze and focus on finishing my hotcakes when I see Peeta push the window open and extend his hand to wave to the crowd. They go wild.

"What the hell are you doing?" Cole demands, glaring at him. I have to admit, I'm wondering too. Just because I'm a Victor now, doesn't mean I like the Capitol any more than I did when I was coming into the city last year. These people still sicken me, with their taste for violence and the brutal murders of children. My mind flashes to the image of Rue, curled up in a nest of netting. I savagely push the thought away.

Peeta doesn't stop waving. "One of them may be rich. And the crowd has to _like_ you, if you're going to get sponsors." It occurs to me that this is the first time Peeta has spoken—at least, in my presence—since the Reaping. He's been oddly quiet, and a part of me can't help but think he's been planning.

Taking Peeta's thought and running with it, Ryan pushes open another window and mimics him; the crowd—already going wild at Peeta's waving—goes absolutely ballistic. Cole glares at them both, but I have a sort of odd respect for what they're trying to do. If they appear gracious to the crowd, it increases the chance of sponsors—which will give Haymitch and I a head start when trying to win them over. Smart guy.

They both continue to wave until we pull into the station.

"Okay," I stand, brushing the crumbs from the toast I had earlier off my shirt, "remember what Haymitch and I said. Don't object. Don't complain. Just grit your teeth and let them get on with it. I'll see you after the opening ceremony."

* * *

><p>I can't say I've missed the Remake Centre.<p>

I follow Haymitch in as all the tributes from the various districts are shepherded into their suites. He leads me to a part of the building I didn't get to see the last time around—sort of like a waiting lounge, where all the other mentors wait until they need to take their places for the ceremony. There's a large buffet table off to one side, and a few of them mill around it, muttering to each other.

I recognise a few faces from watching the Games over the years. There's a friend of Haymitch's—Chaff, I recall his name to be. He claps me on the shoulder as he passes me and takes Haymitch directly to the liquor table. I frown after them. Haymitch _cannot_ get drunk and leave me all alone to deal with this. He just can't. I'm about to start after him when an arm goes around my shoulder. I give a start and turn to see another familiar face.

Finnick Odair—an old Career tribute from District Four. He won the Games ten years ago. I remember watching him on screen, fourteen years old, trapping and then spearing his opponents with a trident. He's just as good-looking in person as he is on the television screen. It makes me skin crawl as I remember all the rumours about his harem of fancy lovers in the Capitol.

"Why hello there, Katniss." His voice is warm and friendly enough, but I recoil.

My mouth runs away with me before I can control it. "Get your arm off me before I break it in three places."

He laughs as my face turns a brilliant red. Instead of taking his arm off me, though, he steers me over to a table where a few others are playing some kind of game. "Hey, Johanna!" He calls out, getting the attention of Johanna Mason from District Seven. Another person I recognise from the television—she won the Games three years ago. "I found another one like you!"

"Go away, Odair," her voice is tinted with annoyance, but I can hear genuine affection in her tone, "before I punch you in the nose."

He laughs at her, too. "See?" He turns to me. "Peas in a pod!" He turns back to Johanna. "This one just threatened to break my arm."

"'This one' has a name." I shove his arm off my shoulders.

He's still grinning. "Right. Sorry, Katniss." He pulls a chair for me. "Sit down."

I hesitate, looking from Johanna to another man I vaguely recognise. I don't remember his name though. "Oh, go on." Johanna nods to the seat. "Finn's not gonna leave us alone anyway."

I take the seat and Finnick disappears for a few moments. He rematerialises, and passes around some kind of drink, taking the remaining chair across from me. I gingerly sip from my glass—I think it's some kind of fruit juice. It's very sweet. "What's this?"

"Pineapple juice." Johanna takes a large mouthful of hers, putting her cards back on the deck in the middle of the table. The other man—Blight, I finally remember his name to be—copies her.

"So, Katniss," Blight's voice is scratchy, but unmistakably kind as he begins to shuffle the cards, "I don't reckon you know how to play poker, do you?" I shake my head in the negative. "Perfect. We'll have something to do until the ceremony."

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><p>The next three hours are spent trying to teach me the game. I understand the basics of it, but I do not possess what they call a 'poker face'. The chocolate buttons we're using as currency quickly disappear from my pile. "Never gamble for real money." Johanna laughs at me as she sweeps the last of my chocolate into her own pile.<p>

At lunchtime, Johanna grabs my arm and, before I can protest, drags me to the buffet table. I'm starving, but I hadn't wanted to leave the table. Partially because I'm so new to this I feel so incredibly overwhelmed, and partly because it felt like the three of them were forming some kind of protective bubble over me. I remind myself that I am like them. I have killed to be here today. So have they. None of us are innocent.

"It's better when you don't have the arena to look forward to, isn't it?" Johanna says lightly as we motion to the Avoxes that stand on either side that we don't need their help, and fill our plates with fried potatoes and beef, topping it with some kind of gravy. The smell makes my mouth water, and it's all I can do not to eat it straight off the table. Instead, I snag a roll, a small package of butter, and some cutlery.

"Sure it is," I shrug, "until you remember the three boys from your district upstairs."

Johanna makes a face. "Yeah, that's kind of a bummer." We make our way back to the table.

"Where's ours?" Finnick raises his eyebrows at us as we sit down and start to eat.

"Do we look like your servants?" Johanna scoffs with a raised eyebrow of her own. "Get your own."

Finnick sighs and stands, clapping Blight on the shoulder. "Come on then. If we can't count on the women to feed us, we'll have to go forage in the hunting grounds ourselves."

I laugh, but his joke makes no sense. He and Blight disappear for a while, and Haymitch appears in Finnick's abandoned seat with a plate of his own. Chaff takes Blight's. "Good to see you playing nice with the other kids." Haymitch says in a wry voice.

"Good to see you're not falling over." I raise my eyebrows at him. He rolls his eyes.

We eat in relative silence—when Finnick and Blight return, there's some shuffling as they drag some extra chairs over. When the Avoxes take our plates, we open a new packet of chocolate buttons and start playing again. I last about as long as I did before lunch. My only consolation is that Chaff is so drunk that he runs out before me.

We're just finishing off the last of the chocolate when a voice comes over the speakers around the room. "The opening ceremonies will begin in one hour. Mentors will please begin to make their way down to the cars waiting for transport to the City Circle."

We say our goodbyes and I follow Haymitch towards a staircase. I'm confused—everyone else is going for the elevators, even though we're only one floor up. The tributes will be brought down to the ground floor momentarily. We have to be gone before they get downstairs.

Haymitch turns to me on the landing and stares me down. I fidget. "_What_?"

"Tell me you didn't tell them about our strategy." Haymitch demands.

"Of course I didn't." I frown. "What, do you think I'm _stupid_? We didn't even talk about the tributes."

"Good." Haymitch turns on his heel. "Come on, then. Let's get down there."

* * *

><p>The parade is going to start any second now.<p>

It's so incredibly humid—I feel sticky all over, and all I want to do is get to the Training Centre. I still hate the place, but at least the air conditioning is better than this. With all the Capitol citizens that are in the square, and all the talking that's going on, the air is about twice as warm as it ought to be. I need to shower. I want to get _out of this denim_.

The roar is almost deafening as we see the District One chariots roll out of the remake centre. One by one, the chariots—slightly larger this year, to make up for the extra tribute on each—roll out of the Centre. I have to laugh at a few of them—obviously some of the stylists have tried to copy Cinna's flame idea from last year, when he made me 'the Girl on Fire'. But some of them look ridiculous.

I silently beg in my mind that the District Twelve tributes got good stylists this year. I know Cinna stayed with Twelve, even though he was offered District One—he told me so this morning. But, he'd told me, Portia had taken the promotion and he was working with two brand-new partners this year. I bite my lip as District Eleven rolls out.

Less than a minute later, District Twelve is rolling out of the Remake Centre.

I breathe a sigh of relief—it's immediately obvious that Peeta got Cinna. He's dressed in a strange sort of outfit, his face dramatically made up with white makeup and deep shadowing. His outfit and matching crown seems to glow in shifting patterns, like… like…

"Hot coals." Haymitch says from beside me, looking up at the screen. Of course. Continuing with the fire theme. Peeta smiles and waves at the crowd, who are going crazy for his outfit. Less than ten seconds out of the Remake Centre and I can already hear them chanting his name.

Cole didn't do _too_ badly for a stylist. His skin is painted black and his outfit is just as dark—all you can see of him in the night is his eyes and teeth as he tries to smile for the audience. He's, simply put, a lump of coal, with his close-cropped hair sprayed with red, yellow and orange to give the appearance of fire on top. Kind of fitting, given his name.

But poor, poor Ryan. I avert my eyes from his form on the screen, embarrassed for him. That was my biggest fear last year. Naked and covered in black dust.

"Cinna just made our job twice as easy." Haymitch mutters into my ear, straining to be heard over the roars of the Capitol citizens.

As the District Twelve chariot rolls past us and I see Peeta in person, smiling and waving to the crowd, I can't help but agree.

* * *

><p>All three of the boys are on the twelfth floor before us. No surprise there.<p>

Effie steers them towards their rooms to shower and change—Haymitch takes me to the room next to the one he stayed in last year. Apparently, this one is mine. The door is barely closed behind me before I strip off my clothing and make a beeline for the shower.

If there's one thing about the Capitol that I like—well, other than the food—it's the showers. I quickly recall how to program it to my taste and simply stand there and relax under the lukewarm jet of water. After the muggy air in the City Circle, this is heaven.

I spend a little too long in the shower, but I feel a lot better by the time I let it dry me off. I dress in a shirt and trousers, braiding my hair down my back—I feel remarkably more like myself without all the gunk on my face as I slip into the dining room and take my seat at the dining table. I'm the last one to arrive.

Effie is in a great mood—this is the second year in a row that any of her tributes have made a lasting impression. I don't listen to her as she talks on and on about something—I'm not really all that hungry because of the food that was at the Remake Centre, but I still manage to put down a decent amount. Before long, we're watching the replay of the ceremony, and I can't help but feel good about potential sponsors this year. Once again, Cinna has made a miracle happen.

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><p><strong>Not much Peeta in this one, sigh. But hey! Finnick! And Johanna!<strong>

**Reviews are love!**

**Until next time,  
>Sparkly Faerie<strong>


	4. Chapter Four

**This is the last of my pre-prepared chapters. Prepare for slower updates from here on out, unfortunately.**

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own The Hunger Games or anything associated with it. All rights to The Hunger Games and affiliated products belong to Susanne Collins, Lionsgate, and the other proper entities.

**Summary:** In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.

**Rating:** T (For now)

**Genre:** Action/Drama/Romance

**Pairing: **Katniss/Peeta

**Warnings:** None.

* * *

><p><strong>Flares<strong>

**Chapter Four**

We rouse the tributes at seven in the morning, and make sure they eat a hearty breakfast. They're fairly quiet as they eat, but they're all alert as they stuff themselves. Haymitch and I exchange a glance. He's thinking of something. What is it?

"Katniss and I are going to sit down with you for half an hour each this morning to work out a preliminary strategy." He nods in my direction. "We'll come up with some strategies based on what you tell us. We'll start with Ryan, then we'll talk to Cole and then Peeta."

"Why can't you talk to us all at once?" Ryan asks haltingly.

I shrug. Haymitch explains. "Well, you'll each have your own strategies. You can't have anyone else knowing what your approach will be, or they may be able to turn it against you."

"Oh."

Haymitch and I finish eating and move into the Television room, Ryan trailing along behind us like a kicked puppy. I sit in an armchair as Haymitch stands the boy in the middle of the room and circles him. His face is grim as he prods the boy's non-existent muscles. Eventually, he motions for the boy to sit on the couch and takes the other armchair. I shift awkwardly.

"Can you use any weapons?" Haymitch asks abruptly.

"N-no."

"Well," Haymitch presses a button on the coffee table, and it opens up to reveal a bottle of liquor and orange juice. He pours himself a drink, and gets down to business, "you're going to have to spend some time learning how to use a knife in training." He shoots me a glance that I hope, with a sinking feeling, Ryan can't read. "Have you got any secret skills? Anything that might be useful in the arena?"

"N-no."

It goes on and on. Haymitch must ask the same questions ten times over before he's satisfied and moves on to the advice part of the session. I try to mask my face and not let my pity surface for him to see. Haymitch tells him to try to learn to use a knife in the training sessions, claps him on the back, and sends him back out to breakfast. Cole comes in behind him.

Unlike Ryan, Cole _can_ use a knife. He's not had a lot of practice with it, but he knows how to handle one and could probably do some significant damage. Haymitch puts him through his paces, though, and still manages to pin him down against the chair. Haymitch wasn't even putting any effort into it, either. Cole has the spirit; but he lacks the strength to back it up. We suggest that he learns something about snares and weapons during training and send him out.

Haymitch runs a hand down his face when Peeta's entering the room. I feel almost sick, practically hearing his thoughts about the other two tributes—neither of them have much hope.

"Stand there." Haymitch points to the middle of the room, by the coffee table. Peeta obeys. Unlike the other two boys, Haymitch beckons me over and makes me circle Peeta with him. I don't touch him, but Haymitch takes the opportunity to examine every inch of the boy. I catch his mutterings and feel a little awkward; it's too much like eyeing up a piece of meat for the platter.

Finally, Haymitch tells Peeta he can sit. I practically jump into my chair as Haymitch drops into his own, and wait. It takes a moment for him to speak. "Okay, what can you do?"

"Do?" Peeta echoes. "You mean, in the Games? Nothing."

"Any skills?"

"None." He gives a sad sort of grin. "I have absolutely nothing that will help me in the Arena."

"That's not true." I hear myself say, to all of our surprise. "You're strong—you lift hundred pound bags of flour in the markets all the time when the shipments come in. I've seen you." I avoid Haymitch's eyes, knowing they're on me. "And you can wrestle."

"I'm not that good." He ducks his head.

"You came in second. After your _brother_." I remind him. "I remember the guy you took out in the semi finals two years ago—he beat my friend Gale. He would've had to have been almost one and a half times your size."

"Yeah, but how many times do you see people _wrestle_ to the death?" He argues. "It's not like being able to use a weapon—not like you could, last year!"

Oh my God, it's like he's hell bent on selling himself short. "There's _always _hand-to-hand combat!" I finally snap. "All you have to do it come up with a knife, and you've got a chance. Half the tributes in the arena get jumped, and they're dead." That shuts him up. "Look, you can't go in doubting yourself. That's the quickest way to get killed."

"She's right." Haymitch finally speaks, and our attention snaps back to him. From the look on Peeta's face, he'd completely forgotten he was there. "Don't underestimate yourself. Very often physical strength can mean life or death for a tribute. Now, we need to talk training strategies."

We talk for another twenty minutes. I can already tell the difference between this session and the other two. Haymitch's face is much more intense as he stares the boy down, grilling him about every aspect of his life.

"I decorate the cakes back home." Peeta shrugs, a little pink in the face. "It's hardly the most useful skill, but it's one of the only things I'm really good at."

"That means you're an artist." Haymitch shrugs. "Artists are generally pretty good with camouflage. Spend an hour or two at that station down in the training centre until you're sure you can make a convincing disguise."

"Camouflage?" Peeta repeats in disbelief.

"Sometimes, to fight isn't smart." Haymitch shrugs, leaning back. "When you're cornered by three other tributes, the best thing to do is to hide and wait for them to pass."

"I spent half my Games in hiding." I point out.

"Alright, camouflage." Peeta agrees.

"I don't believe you when you say you can't use a knife." Haymitch tells him. "Stand up." Peeta obeys, and Haymitch copies him, handing him a comb that Effie left on the table last night. "Pretend that's a knife. Come at me."

"_What_?"

"Do it!"

It's more of a wrestling match than a knife fight. I see at least three opportunities for Peeta to 'kill' Haymitch, but he seems to be avoiding striking the fatal blow. Peeta eventually manages to wrestle Haymitch to the ground, but he doesn't reach for the comb he's tucked into his belt. I'm shaking my head as Haymitch throws him off with a grunt of effort, and gestures for him to move away.

"Sit down." He barks. "You," he snaps at me, "what are you shaking your head at?"

"Peeta had three chances to kill you and he didn't." I turn my eye to the boy seated on the couch, and I lean forward. "You can't afford to let opportunities get away from you in the arena, you know. If it comes down to hand to hand combat, the others aren't going to pull any punches. They _will_ kill you. You have to be willing to do the same if you want to win."

"Maybe I _don't_ want to." Peeta scowls. It's the first time I've seen his mood sour. "Maybe I don't have it in me."

"Yes you do." Haymitch waves away Peeta's negativity. "Listen, boy, until you're in there, fighting, you don't know what you're capable of. If you don't wanna win for yourself, then win for your family. Win for your friends. Hell, win for the District."

"I'm not a killer!"

"You'll have to be!" Haymitch glares at him.

"And what if I refuse?"

"Then you die." Haymitch has quite obviously had enough. He grumbles to himself as he throws the door open and stomps out of the room, and suddenly I'm terrified that he's decided not to help Peeta after all.

"Haymitch!" I try to call him back.

"I give up!" He waves me off. "He's all yours, sweetheart!" The door slams behind him.

I bury my face in my hands, leaning my elbows on my knees. Closing my eyes, I heave a sigh. Great. Just great. "Look, Peeta—"

"I'm sorry." Peeta's not looking at me when I look up. Instead, he's staring out the window, over the Capitol. "I just… it just feels too much like the end."

"You hate this, I know." I rise from my chair and sit next to him on the couch. I force my voice into the tone I use when trying to comfort Prim after a bad dream and make my expression sympathetic. "I hated it last year, too. But, listen," he turns to look at me, "you have a _good_ chance. A better chance than most people from Twelve. You're strong. And you're _smart_. Not many people think about sponsors as early as the train."

"What difference does that make?" He asks.

"Smarts are an attractive trait for people to sponsor, and sponsors can mean _everything_." I spread my hands out in front of me, palms up. "Do you remember what happened to me last year, with the fire?"

He nods. "You burnt your hands trying to put out the fire on your pant leg."

"Right." I wiggle my fingers, catching his attention. He stares at my hands. "I burnt them pretty badly. And I made it worse by climbing the tree and cutting down the tracker jackers."

"I don't get it." He shakes his head. "What's this got to do with sponsors?"

"My first sponsor gift was burn medicine." I remind him. "It healed my hands in next to no time. Without that, I wouldn't have been able to use my bow. And that bow saved my life on more than one occasion. Those sponsors saved me." I pause. "And those days, in the rain? I couldn't get food while I was trapped in that cave. They sent me food so I wouldn't collapse from starvation. They sent me arrows when I ran out. You go into the arena with nothing, but if you can attract the right kind of sponsors, Haymitch and I can get you all kinds of things."

"You talk about it like it's easy." He shrugs. "Most of the sponsors flock to One and Two, remember?"

"Not always." I shake my head. "Statistically speaking, I had the most sponsors per tribute last year."

"That's _you_." He shakes his head now. "You have no idea… you don't know the affect you have on people." He picks at a ball of fuzz on his pant leg, not looking at me. "I'm nothing special. Forgettable."

"Were we at the same opening ceremony?" I choose to ignore his comment about me. I have no idea what to say to it. "They _love_ you."

"They loved _Cinna_."

"He did a wonder, I'll admit." I concede. "But Cinna wasn't the one standing on the chariot. He wasn't smiling and waving at the crowd. That was you. They were calling out _your_ name. It's not often that happens to a tribute."

"It happened for you."

"I got lucky." I admit. "But so did _you_. Cinna isn't just stuffing you in fancy clothes, you know. He's making you an image."

"What kind of image?"

I hesitate. "I guess…"

"You don't know, do you?" He nudges my knees with his. I shove him lightly in retaliation and he laughs.

"We'll have to wait and see what he has in store for your interview at the end of the week." I compromise, unwilling to admit that I'm clueless. "Until then, don't give up. I don't feel like going back to District Twelve and explaining why I couldn't bring you home to your family."

"What about the other two?" He asks. "I mean, if I'm the one to go home, you'll have to explain to their families, won't you?"

"Nah, I'll leave that to Haymitch." I stand. "Come on, you've been in here ten minutes too long." He stands and I pat his shoulder. "Just, do me a favour, and at least _try_, okay?"

He hesitates a moment. "Alright." A sigh. "So, camouflage?"

"Let me give you the same advice Haymitch gave me last year." I look him square in the eye to try to get across the seriousness of what I'm about to say. "Steer clear of what you're actually good at. Don't show the Tributes how much you can lift. Try and appear mediocre. That way no one will know how you got your training score at the end, after you perform for the Gamemakers. Effie says that a good score is like armour. It makes them wonder."

"Okay, steer clear of weightlifting and hand to hand. Spend some time at camouflage. Got it. Anything else?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. "You'll want to spend a good amount of time at the plants station." I finally say. "They'll teach you what plants are safe to eat, what ones you can use as medicine, and what ones are toxic so you know to look out for them. Plus, it might give you a clue as to what kind of plants will be in the arena. And I'd recommend the knot tying and fishing stations, at least to master a few skills. If nothing else, you _have_ to be able to feed yourself."

"Right."

"And try to pick up a few weapon skills." I shrug. "You don't have to master any of them, but it's always good to know the basics of as many as possible. Learn to use a sword, swing a mace, throw a spear."

"Got it." Peeta nods. "Okay, I'd better get out there. The other two will start complaining of favouritism."

I shrug. They wouldn't be wrong, but I don't say that. "Go on, then. Don't want to be late. And pay attention to what the other tributes do, too. It might give you some idea as to their strengths." I slap him on the back as he passes me to head out to the dining room again. "Don't forget what I said!"

* * *

><p>I'm going over a list of interview questions for the talk show I'll be appearing on tomorrow when Haymitch comes into the living area. "What did you say to that boy?" He asks. I'm surprised he's not drunk after the argument this morning. He used to drink after <em>we<em> clashed.

"Nothing much." I shrug.

Haymitch stands by the window, looking out over the Capitol. There's a drink in his hand—it probably wont be long before he needs to take a nap. "He came out of here this morning and apologised to me for being unreasonable."

"That was smart of him." I go back to my questions. _What is the biggest change you've had to deal with since becoming a Victor?_ I can't answer 'my nightmares' for that. The Capitol wants a fairytale. "You're the experienced mentor, after all. He needs to stay on your good side."

"I want to know what you told him." He presses.

I sigh and lower the folder in my hands. "We talked a little about sponsors. Then I told him what stations to visit. That's it."

"What stations did you point him to?"

"Camouflage. Plants, knots, fishing." I shrug. "I told him to get the basics in some weapons, too. And don't worry, I told him to steer clear of his real strengths—just like you told me last year."

"Good." He pats my shoulder as he leaves the room. I go back to my folder.

* * *

><p><strong>Like I said in the opening ANs, this is the last of the chapters I have pre-written. I'm in the process of writing Chapter Five at the moment (It's about 23 done, I think), but it's going slowly because I'm busy preparing for the Arena.**

**-Ahem- You will either love or hate what I plan to do with the arena. It's going to be _brutal_, and I mean that in the very literal sense of the word. Currently, I'm working out how each Tribute dies, where they place in the rankings and who kills them, then I've got to do the chronology. I will say, though, that the Bloodbath might be a bit… surprising. ;) But still, there are at least two more chapters before Peeta, Cole and Ryan head into the Arena.**

**As to Peeta's attitude in this chapter, this is how I picture him acting if it _hadn't_ been Katniss in the Arena with him. I mean, he was in love with her, so naturally he's going to try to save her. But if she's not going in there with him and he really has nothing to go home to? We all know he didn't want to turn into a monster, so I've just kind of interpreted that into this context. Also, I forced him and Katniss into OOCness a little, but these are stressful situations and Katniss is kind of desperate to save him, so she's treating him a little friendlier than she did in canon.**

**That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.**

**Reviews are love!**

**Thanks for reading,**

**Sparkly Faerie**


	5. Chapter Five

**Apologies for the lateness of the chapter! I actually had it ready to post that day that no one could log in, but then I started watching Doctor Who and it kind of made me forget. But it's up now! That's what counts. And the next chapter is about 1/3 of the way finished, so hopefully it shouldn't take as long to get out.**

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own The Hunger Games or anything associated with it. All rights to The Hunger Games and affiliated products belong to Susanne Collins, Lionsgate, and the other proper entities.

**Summary:** In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.

**Rating:** T (For now)

**Genre:** Action/Drama/Romance

**Pairing: **Katniss/Peeta

**Warnings:** None.

* * *

><p><strong>Flares<strong>

**Chapter Five**

I let Cinna dress me today, for the talk show.

He puts me in a soft dress that hangs to my knees. It's strapless, and a bit too fancy to be a sundress, the red bodice hugging my curves until it reaches my hips, where it fades to black and hangs loosely. The bodice is embroidered with bright orange thread, holding many tiny precious gems to the fabric in the pattern of a fire. Like my interview dress last year, it appears as if my body is on fire every time I move.

"Don't you have another tribute to continue the fire motif with, Cinna?" I grin as Venia starts to pull at my hair. I let Flavius get on with my eye makeup as Octavia tuts over the state of my fingernails.

"Ah, but you're the Girl on Fire." Cinna's voice is slightly amused. "People would be confused if you didn't continue with the flame theme."

"What _are_ you doing with Peeta, anyway?" I ask, curious. "What's his image?" I wince as Venia pulls my head around a little violently.

"Powerful." Cinna shrugs. "Slow but deadly. Enduring."

"Like embers in the fireplace?" I guess.

Cinna nods. "_You_ are the raging fire that consumes everything in its path. He's domesticated, able to be harnessed and redirected, but no less deadly if pushed in the correct manner."

"You got all that from watching the Reaping?" I would frown if I could, but Flavius' work would be ruined. "Ouch! Not so close to the skin, Octavia!"

"It was either that or stripping and covering him in dust, like Ryan."

"He'd have made a more pleasing sight if he had been." From the tone of her voice, Venia was rather disappointed that Peeta had been fully clothed. "He's got quite a lovely body for such a young man."

"I'll say!" The way that Octavia laughs makes me feel uncomfortable.

"Pity he wasn't from District Eleven!" Flavius laughs. "We could have just sent him out with a few strategically placed leaves."

"You're all having way too much fun." I grumble, blinking while Flavius goes in search of the glitter for my eyelids.

"Oh, honey, you'll understand soon enough." Octavia pats my hand. "One day a good sort will catch your eye and you'll appreciate him just as much as we appreciate that tribute of yours."

"That's enough." Cinna shakes his head. "You're embarrassing her."

I close my eyes and tune them out as Flavius brushes the red glitter over my eyes. They mention something about some singer that everyone in the Capitol worships, some kind of scandal that she'd caused or whatever. I really don't care, thankful for the topic change and the time to attempt to banish the heat from my cheeks. I can't handle that kind of talk. Whenever Madge tries to talk to me about boys back home, I stammer out an excuse and get away as soon as humanly possible.

Half an hour later, I'm ready. Cinna straps a pair of low-heeled black sandals onto my feet and I stand in front of the mirror to examine the end result of the team's efforts. Much like last year, my team has made me significantly more attractive while still leaving me completely recognisable. I twirl in a circle for them, accept their praise, and say goodbye as they leave the room, leaving Cinna and I behind.

"Nervous?" He asks, tugging the bodice of my dress up on one side. I am completely beyond being embarrassed or modest around Cinna and my team.

I shrug. "Not yet. It's not the first time I've been on television. Ask me again when I'm about to go on."

"Have you read through the questions they sent across again?"

"Of course I have. I'm not going in there unprepared." I cringe at the thought. "I made a big enough idiot out of myself at the interview after the Games last year."

"You did _fine_ last year." Cinna places his hands on my shoulders, warming the cool skin at his touch. "Well, good luck, then. And don't forget your answers." As if I could forget them. Haymitch and Cinna had spent hours with me last night, after the Tributes had gone to bed, quizzing me in rapid-fire, mixing up the order of the questions until I was able to answer every single one with confidence, no matter when they were thrown at me. "It's only Caesar Flickerman."

I bite back the comment that Caesar Flickerman has scared me ever since I was a little girl, and force a smile, nodding. "I'd better get going. My car will be here soon."

"I'll see you later, then."

* * *

><p>The artificial lights of the studio make the room incredibly hot. I take my place in the seat assigned for me and try not to move too much as I blow a piece of hair out of my face. Any moment now, they'll start recording, and I will have to put on the biggest show of my life. No one who knows me will believe the way I'm about to act. Gale will find it incredibly funny. He'll probably tease me for weeks when I get home. It's bad enough that I'm wearing a dress, but the attitude I have to adopt makes it all that much more out of character for me.<p>

"Places!"

I sit up straight and watch the little blinking light on the camera. It turns solid, and Caesar starts speaking. Quickly, I arrange myself into a ladylike position, crossing my legs, draping my skirt over my knees and folding my hands in my lap, just like Effie taught me last year.

"Hello Panem, and welcome to _Caesar's Palace_!" He grins brightly at the camera. "I'm your host, Caesar Flickerman, and we have a very special lady here with us today. Everybody please help me to welcome Katniss Everdeen of District Twelve—the Victor of the Seventy-fourth Annual Hunger Games—the Girl on Fire!"

The studio audience—mostly middle-aged women—go wild with their applause. I manage to smile before I appear on the screens next to the camera. "Thank you very much, Caesar." I manage to say in a steady voice. I try to inflect it with as much warmth as possible. I cannot afford to slip up.

"Any time, my love." His laugh lines are almost non-existent. His lips, hair and eyelids are lavender this year, and I can't help but think how _awful_ it looks. "And how does it feel, to be back in the Capitol?"

"Busy." I lie. "There's so much to do, getting ready for the Games. I haven't really been able to see the outside of the District Twelve suite yet."

"That's right, this is your first year as a mentor." Caesar nods as if I've said something incredibly interesting. "How are you finding that?"

"It's… different." I appear to settle on the word, when in reality I'd practiced the hesitation for about twenty minutes last night. "I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it's not been that bad so far."

"And your first year is a Quell! That's got to be fun!"

"It's pretty full-on, with three tributes instead of the normal two." I evade his question. "Between them and all the interviews I'm preparing for, I haven't had time to stop and breathe yet." I force myself to laugh.

"Oh, I forgot! You're Panem's most wanted woman of the moment, aren't you? How does that feel?"

"Very different." I shrug a little. "I mean, a year ago I was nobody. Now everyone knows me. I'm still getting used to it.

"Of course, it can be a lot to take in all at once." He pauses, to give the audience time to catch up. "So, Katniss, what would you say is the biggest change you've had to deal with since winning the Hunger Games?"

* * *

><p>I collapse into my chair at dinnertime. I haven't even changed out of the red and black dress yet. My entire afternoon was spent meeting and greeting fans, posing for photographs and making small talk with various important people from around the city. I spent some time in the City Circle, too, forced to go on a little 'shopping trip' for the cameras.<p>

"Nice dress." Haymitch takes it in.

"Yeah. Cinna's work. Again." I kick my shoes off. "I'm just going to sit here and not move for the next hour or two, okay?"

"Long day?" I start at the sound of Peeta's voice. Ryan is watching silently, as always, and Cole is ignoring us for his food.

"You have _no_ idea. I'm going to be all over the television tonight."

"Oh, Katniss," Effie gushes as she enters the room, "I saw you on _Caeser's Palace _this afternoon! You were wonderful!"

"Thanks, Effie." I sigh, tucking into my lamb stew. She keeps quizzing me on my interview, but I refuse to give her any details around the tributes. I'm embarrassed enough about what I said without them knowing it, too. But I knew what I was doing. I knew what I was signing up for.

After dinner the Tributes go to amuse themselves. Haymitch, Cinna and I lock ourselves in the living room as the other stylists and Effie leave for home. Sighing, I flip through the channels on the television to find the replay of _Caeser's Palace_ from this afternoon, and prepare to cringe.

It's always a surreal experience, watching myself on television; I see and hear myself saying things I don't remember. I laugh a lot at Caesar's tired old jokes—I come across as vapid and shallow half the time, giggling over some shots of Capitol models walking down a runway in things that _I_ had supposedly designed. They were, in reality, Cinna's creations, but he'd been eager enough to help me with my Victor's Talent when I had come up with nothing.

In reality, it's not so bad. It's almost like watching one of those television shows the Capitol people are so fond of. That's not me on the screen—that's Capitol-Katniss, a character created to protect myself and my loved ones. None of the things she talks about—clothing, music, television—mean anything to me. In reality, it's Cinna's views she's repeating. And, if I'm honest, it looks sincere enough. I'm thinking I may have escaped that interview unscathed.

"You did well, Katniss." Cinna confirms my suspicions. "You barely faltered, and any hesitation you had reads as nerves."

"You did fine." Haymitch agrees, and I finally relax. If _Haymitch_ thinks I did alright, then I must have survived. "But it's not the last interview you'll have this year. You know that, right? There's still the advertisements for sponsors, the banquets, the meetings, the death Interviews. Are you gonna be able to handle that, Sweetheart?"

I nod. What choice do I have? Today was the biggest personal interview I'll have, but all eyes will be on how I handle this year's Games. If I screw up, the backlash will be monumental. "Do we have any pitches for them?"

"We'll have to wait and see what their Interviews will be like." Haymitch shrugs. "That'll be the angle we'll work with."

* * *

><p>The next day is quiet. We eat with the Tributes in the morning and give them final words of advice for their private sessions. Once they disappear behind the elevator doors, it's just me, Effie and Haymitch again.<p>

"Well, we should—" Effie cuts off as Haymitch and I go back to breakfast in unison. I've eaten so much this morning already, but it seems I'm having a hollow day. I shovel a few spoonfuls of porridge into my mouth—I suppose there's honey and berries in the oats, but it tastes like ash to me. My stomach feels like a mass of writing snakes. So much rides on today.

"Well, really." Effie has crossed her arms and is tapping her foot. It actually looks rather undignified, but I ignore her and continue to stuff myself, taking a deep swig out of the pitcher of orange juice on the table. "Katniss!"

"Yes?" I rip a piece of syrupy waffle off my plate with my fingers and shove it in my mouth.

"That's no way for a lady to conduct herself at the breakfast table!"

Haymitch lowers his glass. Let him get as drunk as he wants today. We're not needed again until tomorrow anyway. "Leave her alone, Effie. She'll be plenty ladylike in front of the cameras when the time comes."

"Well, I think—"

"Leave it." Haymitch shakes his head, and Effie huffs and stalks from the room. I can hear her heels clicking all the way down to her suite. I don't have the energy to worry about her when all I can think about is the training scores tonight. Please, _please_ let Peeta score well.

* * *

><p>Effie doesn't rejoin us until Ryan makes it back to the twelfth floor. Apparently her obligations to the Tributes overrule her distaste for mine and Haymitch's manners.<p>

Haymitch quizzes Ryan on his performance, but the boy seems downhearted about his performance. "I didn't do anything special."

"But what _did_ you do?" Haymitch asks again.

"I ran a bit. And stabbed a few dummies."

"Were they paying attention?" I find myself asking.

"Well, yeah." Ryan shrugged. "Aren't they supposed to?"

I'm surprised to find myself laughing—Haymitch obviously knows the source of my amusement, because he's started chuckling too. "Yeah. Yeah, they are."

So they've been forced to pay attention this year. I guess my temper last year, shooting the apple from the pig's mouth, made some kind of impact after all. Even Effie is chuckling along with us. Ryan looks at us like we're crazy. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Haymitch clears his throat and Effie and I fall silent. It really isn't funny, but I feel a bit proud. Even if it's in this small way, I've affected the Games. More Gamemakers paying attention means fairer scoring, which then affects the betting polls. Which then affects sponsoring, which can make _all_ the difference. "You ran?"

"I did a few laps of the training gym." Ryan shrugs. "Nothing impressive about that."

"No, running's good. The faster you run the more likely you are to live." Haymitch pats him on the back. "Go shower, we'll call you when the other two get back."

Peeta comes up next, wincing as he rubs a muscle in his upper arm. "I think I pulled something throwing the weights." He complains.

Haymitch checks him over. "It's nothing, you'll be fine by the time you're in the Arena." He promises. "So, what'd you do?"

Peeta shrugs. "I threw the weights around, wrestled with one of the attendants. And some camouflage. They sent the attendants out while I hid and made them try to find me."

"How long'd it take?"

"They gave up."

Peeta goes off to shower, and then Cole is ambling out of the elevator. Haymitch asks him the same question.

"I cut up a dummy." He grins. "Cut it into pieces."

His answer unsettles me, but Haymitch sends him off. Am I imagining the sour look on his face?

"Is this not good?" I ask in an undertone, to keep the boys down the hall from hearing it.

"We'll have to wait to see what their scores are." Which, of course, isn't an answer at all.

* * *

><p>After dinner we're all seated in the living room, waiting for the broadcast to get to the District Twelve tributes. I'm seated on the armrest of Haymitch's chair; Effie is in the other one, and the boys are all sitting on the couch. I'm picking at the material on my trousers as the third boy from District Eleven disappears from the screen.<p>

Ryan's face pops up, followed by the appearance of a flashing number six.

"Not bad." Haymitch is nodding away as the picture disappears and is replaced by a picture of Peeta. I suck in a breath before the number nine appears on screen.

The room bursts into applause. "That's wonderful, Peeta!" Effie leaps up from her seat and hugs him, crushing his face to her chest. Peeta's face disappears from the screen as Effie plops back down into her seat.

One more. Cole's face pops up on screen.

"Oh, well done!" Effie cries, oblivious to the look Haymitch and I exchange out of the corner of our eyes. "Eight! That's marvellous!"

* * *

><p><strong>So, next chapter, Interview Prep and the Interviews themselves. We should get our first glimpse of the Arena either at the very end of Chapter Six or at the beginning of Chapter Seven. Is anyone else excited? Lol.<strong>

**Thanks for reading, reviews are love!**

**Until next time,**

**Sparkly Faerie**


	6. Chapter Six

**Hey—a week. Yay me!**

**University started up this week. Less time for writing. :( Just letting you guys know now, so that if I disappear for a while, you know where I am.**

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own The Hunger Games or anything associated with it. All rights to The Hunger Games and affiliated products belong to Susanne Collins, Lionsgate, and the other proper entities.

**Summary:** In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.

**Rating:** T (For now)

**Genre:** Action/Drama/Romance

**Pairing: **Katniss/Peeta

**Warnings:** Some language—but nothing too terrible.

* * *

><p><strong>Flares<strong>

**Chapter Six**

"Ever heard of knocking?"

I roll my eyes and ignore Haymitch's bad mood, sitting on the windowsill. He shields his eyes as I pull the curtains back. "You can't sleep in today. Interviews to prepare for."

"Yeah, yeah."

Ten minutes later he's up and in the bathroom, and I head back out to breakfast. Cole, Peeta and Ryan are seated at the table, eating quietly—none of them are looking at each other. I suppose knowing their training scores, and therefore their likely prospects, has alienated them from each other even more so than they were before.

We sit in silence until Haymitch enters the dining room. I wonder what he's going to have me do today, because I honestly don't think I'd be at all good at helping to prepare for the interviews. I only barely survive my own, even a year after the initial one.

We wait for Haymitch to finish eating. "So, we're gonna be preparing for your interviews today." He clears his throat. "Each of you will have two and a half hours with me and Effie, and a two and a half hour break—Katniss, you'll spend the first half of the day with me, learning to help tributes prepare the content, and the other half of the day with Effie, learning how to help with conduct. That's a mentor's job anyway; Effie's only been doing it because we've only had one mentor before this year."

I nod. Makes sense. "Okay."

"Cole, you're gonna start with me and Katniss. Ryan, you'll be with Effie first. After that, Peeta starts with Effie while Ryan moves to me, and Cole gets a break, then Cole's with Effie, Peeta's with me and Ryan is finished." A pause. "Any questions?"

"No."

"Good. That means we can get started."

We split up into different rooms, leaving only Peeta at the breakfast table, picking at a roll and looking lost. One thing to be said about the regular years, you're usually doing so much during the day, you don't usually have this opportunity to sit and stew about your future—or lack thereof. Honestly, Peeta's face already looks a little grey.

"Katniss!"

"Just give me a minute." I shut the door behind Cole and approach Peeta. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." He answers a little too quickly. "I just wish I could get some fresh air."

"You can." He snaps his head up to look at me, confusion in his eyes. "I'll show you how to get to the roof. C'mon."

It takes less than five minutes to get to the roof, and the relief on Peeta's face at the open air makes me smile a little. It's exactly how I felt last year when Cinna showed me the rooftop. "There's a force field around the edges of the building, so you can't throw yourself off." I tell him.

"I thought you said I was going home this year." The grin is forced.

"'Course you are." Awkwardly, I pat him on the shoulder. I'm no good at this sort of stuff. "Just telling you now."

"Well, thanks." He spots the garden—it's all different from the last time I was up here. Do they change it every year? "This is much better than inside, even if it's not home."

"I should get back inside. Haymitch'll skin me alive."

"Good luck."

"I'll see you at Effie's." I promise, and slip back inside.

* * *

><p>Cole is sullen when I head back into the room. "Sorry about that."<p>

"About time, sweetheart." Haymitch growls as I sit in the armchair across from him. "We were just talking angles. Come on, boy. Let's get this started."

Cole is a lot like I was in my interview prep last year. He practically snarls his answers at Haymitch as I sit and watch, feeling sorry for him. I don't think he's going to make any kind of impression at all, despite his high score. If anyone remembers him, it will be for that since—compared to Peeta—he made almost no impression at the opening ceremony either.

I doubt he could get away with finding his stylist in the crowd and answering as honestly as possible, either.

One thing to be said, though, he can almost pull off an air of looking forward to the Games. Not quite as well as Cato did last year, but there's enough aggression in his demeanour that Haymitch seems to be able to channel into a constructive analysis of what he can do in terms of content.

As they go along, Haymitch keeps quizzing me on my thoughts, what I think Cole should do or what I think would work for him. I remember yesterday, when he'd come back from his private session with the Gamemakers. "Why don't you smile a little bit more?" I offer. "If you're smiling when you're talking about killing someone, it's a bit more frightening. It makes you look more intimidating to the audience."

"She's right." Haymitch concedes. "Try that again with a smile."

Cole obeys, and I finally feel like we might be getting somewhere. Until he gets fed up. "I don't see why I'm even bothering!" He snaps. "We all know I'm not gonna survive."

"You don't know that."

"Of course I do! Everyone knows mentors pick favourites and I _know_ I'm not the one this year."

"Don't be stupid." Haymitch scoffs. "It's the sponsors that pick the favourites, not the mentors. The only reason it looks like mentors favour certain tributes is because the kid's attracted more sponsors. That's all."

I have to admit, _I_ almost believed that, even though I know he's lying through his teeth. "And you got a good score." I point out. "There's a good chance you'll get some sponsors of your own this year."

"Bullshit."

"Hey, that's enough!" Haymitch growls. "Keep going like that and you _wont_ get any sponsors. The people here don't like rude kids. So if you can't say something good, shut the hell up."

Cole sinks back into his chair, and we try to get on with the rest of the session—except Cole refuses to cooperate. So much for his good score attracting sponsors—no one will want to sponsor him, the way he's acting. He'd better pull it together before tomorrow night or he'll flounder, crash and burn.

When his time is up, he doesn't even say goodbye, shoving Ryan out of the way as the smaller boy enters the room.

"Come in." I wave him over. "Sit down."

"Right." Haymitch shakes his head and reaches for the drink on the table, taking a deep swig.

"Don't worry about it, we just had a bit of an argument with Cole." I try to assure the boy. "Just give us a sec." I pull Haymitch out of his chair and drag him into the corner of the room. "You can't start drinking now." I hiss. "You've still got Ryan and Peeta to prepare."

"I'll drink if I want." Haymitch snarls.

"Cole is only one of three kids." I want to shake him. "You can't let them down because the first one made you angry."

Haymitch steps back and blinks at me. "Who are you and what have you done with Katniss?" He demands.

"What?"

"You're starting to sound like one of the proper mentors now." He grins, slapping me on the shoulder. He rubs his hands together as he resumes his seat, leaving me staring into the space that he'd been occupying. "Right, let's get to work, kid."

Ryan's a sweet, humble boy, and we start to weave that into his interview material. Haymitch actually cracks a smile at one point, in a huge contrast with the scowl he was wearing when working with Cole. We've even managed to get the nuts and bolts of Ryan's interview worked out when it comes time for me to go to the other room with Effie.

"Don't let him bully you too much." I tell Ryan. "He only acts tough." Ryan laughs as Haymitch scowls at me.

I slip out of the room and breathe a sigh, passing Cole at the table as I hurry to Effie's room. He's picking at one of the fake flowers in the vase in the centre of the table, looking hostile. We ignore each other as I pass.

"Effie?" I knock on the door. "It's Katniss. I'm supposed to sit in on you guys now…?"

I hear Effie's voice call out. "Come in!"

I open the door and step in—but the sight that greets me is nothing I could have prepared for.

"Um. What are you doing?"

"Teaching him posture!" Effie smiles brightly.

"And… sitting on his lap helps… how?"

Poor Peeta looks mortified. Effie has him sitting on a wooden chair, straight-backed, hands on his knees, feet flat on the ground—and she's _sitting_ on him. Pinning his hands down. He sticks his head out from behind her shoulder to look at me. "It forces him to assume and hold proper posture!" She chirps brightly.

"You didn't teach _me_ that way." I press my lips together. I shouldn't laugh, but it's funny.

"Well, because female posture and male posture are two totally different things!" She says this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Right. Well, he's not going to be able to keep proper posture if you crush him." Effie isn't the largest woman in the Capitol, but she's larger than any woman in District Twelve. "You'd be cutting off the blood to his legs."

"Actually, my legs went to sleep about ten minutes ago." Peeta mumbles. I laugh as Effie jumps off his lap like it's on fire.

* * *

><p>The next evening comes all too quickly. Tonight, the interviews—then, tomorrow morning, the Tributes go into the arena. If <em>I'm<em> sick at the thought, it's no real stretch to imagine how they must feel. I barely remember interview night last year. It's all a bit of a blur.

Haymitch talks to the Tributes backstage while I take a seat behind the stylists. Because the mentors wont be in focus tonight, we have no real seating order. I've just sat down behind a stylist from District Five when Finnick appears on my right. "Hello again, District Twelve."

"Finnick." I say tiredly, twisting my hands in my lap.

"You look lovely tonight." He playfully tugs on a lock of my hair.

"Thanks. I got dressed all by myself." I roll my eyes. Honestly, there are more important things in the world than how I look. I even dressed _down_ for the occasion. Simple green dress with woven sandals, half of my hair loosely tied back, leaving the longest bits to settle around my shoulders. Even the makeup is minimal. I conform to the Capitols expectations, but at the same time I don't look over the top.

"No, I mean it." He pats my shoulder. "The simplicity suits you. You look very nice."

My cheeks warm a little. I'm not good at receiving compliments. "Thanks."

The other mentors mill around us. Someone I don't know sits on my left, and Finnick greets him warmly. "This is Beetee. District Three."

I shake the elderly man's hand. He must have won ages ago, maybe even before my parents were born. You don't see many people this old outside the Capitol. "It's nice to meet you, Katniss." His voice is stronger than I expected.

Haymitch makes an appearance on the other side of the seating box moments before the light dims. We fall silent at the swell of the music, and the Tributes march onto the stage in single-file. Settling into my seat as Caesar Flickerman bounds onto the stage, still lavender, I get ready to endure the next hour and a half.

I pay as much attention to them as possible, grimly amusing myself by guessing how long they'll last. It's a Quell, after all, and not only do they have to survive each other—it's likely the arena will turn on them as well. I've never seen the tapes of the twenty-fifth and fiftieth games, but drunken stories from Haymitch have given me a picture of unforgiving landscapes, forests full of traps, the very ground opening up underneath you at the same time as the sky falls. A small, selfish part of me is glad that I'm not going in this year.

The interviews drag on—each Tribute gets only three minutes, but boy after boy after boy seems to take so much longer. They all start to look the same after a while—all dressed in suits of varying hue and accents, but the base designs are all similar. The three from District Four all have the same sun-bleached hair and sun-kissed skin—all tall and dark-eyed; they all might as well be the same person.

I lean over and murmur at Finnick. "How to you tell them apart?"

"I don't." He winks at me and I crack a smile against my will.

Ryan, being the youngest of the District Twelve tributes, goes on third from last. He fumbles a little, but he manages to make it through. "So, tell me—" Caesar beams towards the end, "—how are you finding the Training Centre? What's the best part so far?"

"The food." Ryan answers immediately, and I remember my response last year. _"The lamb stew?"_ "And my mentors have been good too. They've helped me so much."

"Yes, everyone loves Miss Everdeen." Caesar nods to the approving roar of the crowd. "And Haymitch… well, we all know how he is." He winks at the camera. The buzzer sounds and Ryan goes to sit down. Cole makes his way to the stage—he looks like he's _sulking_.

His interview does not go well. This is _exactly_ why Tributes from District Twelve do so poorly in the sponsors department—they don't know _how_ to talk to people. Yes, low scores decrease chances, and poor nourishment takes it's toll, but they've had a week to rectify that. No, it's not nearly enough to make them healthy, but it _does_ do your health good to have three plentiful meals a day for a week straight. And all the food they've served all week is—so Cinna tells me—genetically altered to be as healthy as possible. They've all put on weight this week, even with all the training, and have more colour in their faces. Most Tributes use this to their advantage and hold themselves straighter than they had at the Reapings, but Cole looks more sullen than ever.

He sticks to one-word answers. Unlike Thresh, last year, who could pull that off due to his huge size and superior physical strength, Cole lacks the intimidating aura that Thresh had. For a moment I ache for the lost boy that had spared my life at the feast—I really, truly do think that he would have been friends with Gale and I back home. Good friends. Maybe he even would have hunted with us.

I slam the shutters down on that line of thought when the buzzer sounds. If I keep going down that road I'll start thinking of Rue, and then I'll be a wreck tonight. I can't afford to turn up at the Games Centre tomorrow looking like I've been crying.

Peeta takes the stage and all I can hope is that Haymitch was sober enough to help him by the time he finished with Effie. I'm kind of pleased to see that Peeta has ignored Effie's lessons on posture and is sitting comfortably, unlike the last two. I can just imagine Effie's face as he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees and smiles lopsidedly, rather than the straight-backed, still posture with the awful full-toothed smile that Effie wanted him to use.

The interview flies past. He's charming. And funny. The audience is in stitches over his story about the showers—he and Caesar bring down the house when they start sniffing each other.

Soon, they're at the last question. "So, Peeta… I think a lot of the ladies want to know… do you have a girlfriend back home?"

Peeta hesitates, then shakes his head. "No," he clears his throat, "no girlfriend." It's so unconvincing.

It's clear Caesar doesn't believe him either. "Oh, c'mon—handsome boy like you, there must be _someone_." Peeta's face starts to flood a little pink and he shifts uncomfortably. "What's her name?" He pushes.

Peeta glances out over the audience. "It doesn't matter—I don't think it'll work out. Doubt she even knew I existed before the Reaping."

Caesar is all encouragement. "So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, right?"

"I really don't think it'd be all that impressive to her." Peeta shrugs.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Caesar is genuinely confused—actually, I think we all are.

"Well, because…" Peeta falters a moment, his face bright red now as he stares at his shoes, "because she's already done it, herself."

* * *

><p><strong>And next chapter we should get our first glimpse of the Arena! Who's excited? I know I'm looking forward to it. I already have some of Haymitch and Katniss' dialogue planned out in my head.<strong>

**Thanks for reading, reviews are love!**

**Until next time,**

**Sparkly Faerie**


	7. Chapter Seven

**Oh my God! I didn't mean to be gone so long, you guys! Five (six?) weeks, I feel terrible. This was sitting at about 700 words for ages, I finally managed to pull my finger out and finish the chapter last night and this afternoon.**

**I just want to thank all of you who reviewed and waited patiently for this update. It's a _little_ bit longer than normal—a bit unintentional, but I decided not to cut it down like I normally would, in exchange for being so late.**

**I'm so sorry!**

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own The Hunger Games or anything associated with it. All rights to The Hunger Games and affiliated products belong to Susanne Collins, Lionsgate, and the other proper entities.

**Summary:** In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.

**Rating:** T (For now)

**Genre:** Action/Drama/Romance

**Pairing: **Katniss/Peeta

**Warnings:** None.

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><p><strong>Recap (since it's been so long):<strong>

_It's clear Caesar doesn't believe him either. "Oh, c'mon—handsome boy like you, there must be_ someone."_ Peeta's face starts to flood a little pink and he shifts uncomfortably. "What's her name?" He pushes._

_Peeta glances out over the audience. "It doesn't matter—I don't think it'll work out. Doubt she even knew I existed before the Reaping."_

_Caesar is all encouragement. "So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, right?"_

_"I really don't think it'd be all that impressive to her." Peeta shrugs._

_"Why wouldn't it be?" Caesar is genuinely confused—actually, I think we all are._

_"Well, because…" Peeta falters a moment, his face bright red now as he stares at his shoes, "because she's already done it, herself."_

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><p><strong>Flares<strong>

**Chapter Seven**

I don't have time to gauge my reaction before the cameras have found me in the audience. There's about a ten-second uninterrupted shot of me staring at the stage, my cheeks flooded by a bright pink blush, my mouth slightly open in shock—I can see it on the big screens on the right side of the stage, but I can't seem to bring myself to control my expression. By the time the cameras flash away from me, I see what Haymitch has done.

Above all things, this is a show. The tributes are putting on a big show for the audience—Tributes who can play on the audience's sympathies are more likely to be favourites than those who don't. And unrequited love is apparently a big thing in the Capitol.

But he wont be around to deal with the fallout of this during the Games. Assuming he survives, he'll have to deal with it, certainly, but until then… he's just created a media circus. They'll follow me everywhere I go, more rabid than before. I wouldn't be surprised if they're already lining up outside the Training Centre. I'm going to have even _more_ cameras and microphones shoved in my face. The thought makes me angry.

When I find Haymitch, I'm going to skin him.

Finnick is trying to catch my attention as I slip out of my seat at the close of the show, but I ignore him. I make a beeline for Haymitch and catch his elbow, ignoring Cinna and Mercedes, Ryan's stylist. "What the hell was that?" I demand.

"Hello to you, too, sweetheart." Haymitch raises an eyebrow.

"Don't '_sweetheart_' me." I spit. "What on _Earth_ possessed you to go that angle?"

"Keep your voice down, Katniss." Haymitch rolls his eyes. "There are reporters around, and the look on your face isn't very pretty."

I pull another ridiculous face, making Mercedes laugh. "We should go back to the Training Centre." She drawls, her tone sickly sweet. She's nice enough, if a bit stupid.

"Yes we should." Haymitch plants his hand on my shoulder and steers me towards the Training Centre. "And, seriously, sweetheart—get rid of that look. You'll only hurt his chances."

It's almost painful, but I manage to soften my expression. "We _will_ be talking about this." I snarl through my teeth as I force a smile for the cameras.

"As long as you act happy in public." He hisses back.

We push through the reporters—I don't respond to any of their questions. I have no idea how I'm supposed to feel right now—the numb shock is fading and I honestly don't know what's going through my system. Certainly, I can appreciate that Peeta is trying to get the crowd to be sympathetic to him. But… why is he dragging _me_ into this? I only want to get through the hell of the next few weeks and manage to bring him home to his family and friends. Surely he could have picked any girl back home to pretend to be in love with.

I just know that I'm not ready to face Peeta yet—I don't trust my temper right now. As soon as I step off the elevator, I avoid Peeta's eyes, pleading exhaustion and flee to my room.

* * *

><p>I eat by myself in my bedroom and fall asleep for a few hours. It's still dark when I wake, and the position of the moon suggests it's about midnight. I lie in bed for a few minutes, my mind blissfully empty.<p>

Eventually, though, I begin to toss and turn. It feels almost like it did the night before my own Games—was it just a year ago? It seems so much longer. I don't feel like a seventeen-year-old girl any more. I feel about a hundred years old.

Eventually, I'm too restless to fall back asleep. I get up and straighten my dress—I fell asleep in it. Effie would be horrified, but a quick glance at the clock reveals that it's one in the morning. Everyone else will be dead asleep by now. I need air.

The rooftop is dark when I step out. I can hear the music from the streets below—and I can easily see the silhouettes, dark against the streetlights of the Capitol.

"You two should be sleeping." My voice is thick with sleep, but it manages to carry across the open space. The two boys start and turn to me, their eyes reflecting the moonlight. It's kind of eerie. I have nightmares like this all the time. I clear my throat. "You have to be awake in seven hours. You really need all the sleep you can get."

"Can't." Peeta shrugs. "Too wound up."

"We're gonna d-die." Ryan sobs. "I w-wanna go home!"

"Hey, you never know. You might get lucky." Peeta reaches out to clap Ryan on the shoulder. "It all depends on what happens inside."

"B-but the Careers—"

"The Careers don't always win." I say gently, taking a seat next to the smaller boy. I'm no good at comforting people, but I've held Prim enough times after a nightmare. It's the same basic principle, isn't it? Awkwardly, I put an arm around his heaving shoulders. I suppose the nightmare thing isn't exactly the same. At least then, you can say '_it's okay. It's just a dream. You were only dreaming_'. You can't say that to a scared Tribute about to go into the Arena. Instead, I try to be reassuring, looking to Peeta for help. He's holding up remarkably well, considering. "Look, what you've got to remember—both of you—is that it's anyone's game. Anything can happen inside the Arena. What you've got to do is survive the first day—after that, your chances are better."

"Are you giving us advice without our third tribute around?" Peeta's voice is slightly teasing—I'm really, very grateful that he's holding up so well, since I doubt I could handle two crying boys.

I shrug. "He's not sitting out here with us, is he?" I point out. "He's being sensible and _sleeping_." Peeta laughs, and even Ryan manages a wet chuckle. "Has Haymitch given you any advice about the bloodbath?"

"No." Peeta shakes his head.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Typical." I mutter under my breath. "Okay, what you want to do is—run. Just run away as far as you can. Haymitch would say don't go for _anything_, but really… if you can get you hands on one of the supply packs that are around the field, you'll have a better chance." I bite my lip. "If you can't get one you'll have to improvise. Don't risk your life unnecessarily for one. But your first priority should be to run _away_ from the fighting—there's no way you'll make it through if you get in the middle of it. Either of you. And find water. Find water as soon as you can. If you don't have something to carry it in, make sure you always know where there's a water source. If there's a stream, or a river, that's the best place to stick to if you don't have a water bottle. That way you can change your position every day and still be near water."

Peeta frowns. "Wont that be what the Careers do?"

"Maybe." I shrug. "But then, they'll almost certainly have water bottles and canteens from the Cornucopia, so they'll be able to go further away with no problems. And—if I'm completely honest? I'd rather be killed by another tribute than dehydration." I shudder. "You have to be alert—even a second of not paying attention to what's around you can get you killed."

"The Careers could sneak up on us." Peeta nods.

"Not only that." I shake my head. "I've never seen the tapes of the other Quells, but I've heard Haymitch's… stories." I pause. "Be suspicious of _everything_. Every plant, every animal. Hell, every _rock_. They might have rigged them to explode for all I know."

"You t-talk about it like it's ev-everyday stuff." Ryan dries his eyes on his shirt sleeve. I'm pleased to see that he's stopped crying. Hopefully my little speech has given him some idea of what to do in there tomorrow.

"I can't help you if I pretend it's something that it's not." I press my lips together. "Just—when you get in there… expect anything. Mutts to pop up from the ground. The earth splitting open and swallowing you. Poisons. Traps. You have to be prepared. You both did the edible plants station, right?"

"We stuck together for most of our training." Peeta nods.

"Okay, good. Don't eat anything unless you're _certain_ it's not toxic." I close my eyes, thinking of the girl from Five last year. I'd never even found out her name.

"What about allies?" Ryan asks in a small voice, looking hopefully at Peeta. The older boy gives a slightly uncomfortable smile and turns to look down at the dancing people in the streets. I can understand his discomfort—allies in the Hunger Games are a tricky business. If you're lucky, they'll die at the hands of another tribute. If you're _un_lucky, they'll betray you. And, if your luck is catastrophic, you'll like them too much to do away with them when push comes to shove. That was why Rue's death had affected me so much last year. I got too attached to her.

I settle on a neutral response. "That's up to you. Use your judgement—but don't trust _anyone_. Even each other." I look between them. "Remember—there's only one Victor at the end of this. It could be one of you. It could be Cole. It could be that simple boy from District Eleven. _Anything can happen_. I can't stress that enough." They nod solemnly. "Now, that's about all I can tell you. Just—be careful."

"Thanks." They both chorus.

"Just doing my job." I say in the Capitol accent. I drop it after their chuckles. "Okay—_bed_. Both of you. _Go_." I take my arm off Ryan's shoulder and pull him to his feet. Peeta staggers to his feet across from us. "Good luck tomorrow."

To my surprise, Ryan throws his arms around my middle, squeezing me into practically a bear hug. Awkwardly, I return it, patting his back like a child. "Thank you, Katniss." Ryan mumbles into my shoulder.

"You're welcome." I say back, returning the hug a little more naturally. I feel the sting of tears at the back of my nose. No. I can't cry. "Come on, you," I take my arms back after a few more seconds, "you need sleep."

"Night." He steps back and heads for the door. I sniffle a little—I can't help it. I like the kid. He's quiet and sweet, kind of like Gale's youngest brother. I try not to think that it could very well _be_ Vick, or Rory, at any point on from next year. I don't think I could handle that.

Peeta still hasn't left. I blink rapidly and turn to him with my sternest expression. "You too. Go on."

He ignores me. "That was nice of you to do." He says instead. "With Ryan, I mean."

I shift uncomfortably. Suddenly, all I can hear is his words echoing in my head from the interview. '_I really don't think it'd be all that impressive to her … because she's already done it, herself_'. Before I can think to control my expression again, I feel my cheeks flooded by a blush, and I'm grateful that it's too dark for him to see it.

He seems to sense it, though. "Listen, about my interview…"

"It's fine." I lie with a shrug.

I can hear the awkward smile in his voice. "You're a terrible liar." He accuses. "I saw your face last night. You were angry with me."

"With _Haymitch_." I correct. "He's the… idiot that let you do it."

"Well, okay, but—"

"Relax," I cut across, coughing awkwardly. "I know it was for the cameras, don't worry."

He pauses. "…right." He finally says—and he's now as uncomfortable as me. "I just—I wanted to say I was sorry for the trouble it's going to cause you. Out here."

I shake my head. "Don't worry about it. Haymitch is probably going to find a way I can use it with potential sponsors." I try to go for offhand, but the whole exchange has suddenly turned painful. I just want him to go back inside and get to sleep so I can enjoy the cool night air. I just want to be by myself.

"Okay." He shifts his weight and looks at the door. "I should—I should go."

"Yeah." I nod absently.

"I should gets some sleep."

"Yeah. Big day tomorrow." And now I want to smack myself. I'm starting to sound like Effie.

"Listen—if I don't see you again—"

"Good night, Peeta."

"But—if I don't—"

"Good _night_."

"—just," he pushes forward, ignoring my dismissal. I don't want to think of this boy dead. I don't want to think of _any_ of the three of them dead. For three kids that I barely knew a week ago, I've gotten too attached to the idea of them. It's going to hurt like hell when they go. I wonder if this was how Haymitch felt, all those years ago when he first started mentoring. Will I end up like him, one day, after my mother passes away and Prim has moved on to her own family? Drunk and alone? "Take care of yourself, Katniss."

The words stick in my throat as he finally turns and disappears inside. I slide down, my back to the fence lining the rooftop, and wrap my arms around my knees. I don't cry—I _can't_ afford to cry. But I spend at least an hour feeling absolutely miserable before finally dragging myself back to my room, changing into a night gown and crawling into bed.

* * *

><p>The Games Centre is actually located underneath the arena, even below the Stockyard—what we call the Launch Rooms, where Tributes are raised into the Arena via metal plates and glass tubes.<p>

It makes sense, to have all the technology for the remote control equipment as close to the Arena as possible, but I hate being underground. Ever since my father died in that mine explosion, I can't stand the feel of it. I need the open air, the sky visible above my head. I feel claustrophobic. I want to turn around and run away.

The Control Room is a circular room, with entrances at opposite sides. Around it are the Mentor Stations, where the mentors from each District monitor their tributes and organise gifts and sponsors over the telephone. The walls between Stations are a grey-white-blue colour, giving the feel of the hospital I was in last year after the Games.

Only the wall that lines the wall of the Control Room has large glass windows, allowing us to see what the Gamemakers are doing. Haymitch says it's so we can anticipate what's going on in the Arena before it happens, but I can't help but feel that it's so that they can keep an eye on us. We'll be living here for the next few weeks, in this small room. No space. No privacy. Except for the bathrooms that connect off the circular hallway outside, but those are to be shared with the other mentors and Gamemakers. The Mess Hall is out there, somewhere, too. I'll have to find it later, but for now it feels like snakes are slithering around in my stomach and I doubt I could even hold down water.

The station itself has a bunk bed stashed in one corner—my things are already set on the top bunk, Haymitch's on the bottom, our bags of clothing sitting in front of the wardrobe at the foot of the beds. There's a desk and two chairs lining the wall on the other side, with monitors hanging on the walls. "There's one more than normal," Haymitch explains as we pull up our seats, "for the extra Tribute. Three of them will follow each Tribute, and the biggest one at the top follows what's being televised." He hands me a pair of headphones. "You plug those in to the switchboard in front of you to switch between the audio from different monitors." He demonstrates. "And that's the map of the arena, there." He points to the largest monitor, to the side of the others. "When the Tributes go into the arena, they'll have markers appear on the monitor so we can follow them."

I feel myself nodding along, plugging myself into the televised sound switch. Haymitch does the same. For a few minutes we can hear only birdsong, and I take the opportunity to study the map of the arena. The terrain is vast, and extremely varied. The Cornucopia is, as always, in the middle of a small field, sunshine beating down on it. There's a large lake slightly to the north, and the rest of the surrounding area is filled with grass that towers to the shoulders of the tallest tribute. All three of our boys would be swallowed up by it completely.

After clearing the grassy area, to the east, there's a desert-type area, with small oases dotted throughout for water. The south is a rocky tumble, without water sources—except, it's raining, and I have a feeling it will continue to rain for quite some time. To the north, beyond the lake, and the west, is a thick, dense forest. Tucked away in the north-east and south-west corners of the Arena are mountains—the first a snow-capped one, lightly snowing. The other looks like a normal mountain, but this is a _Quell_. I can't help but feel that there's more danger there than it's letting on.

"What do you think of the map?" I turn to ask Haymitch, raising my voice a little to make myself heard over the headphones. "What is it?"

Haymitch has picked up some kind of portable touch screen and he's using his finger to scroll through the list on it. "Look at the Cornucopia." He says shortly, not lifting his eyes. I obey.

And my blood runs cold.

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><p><strong>So, I've seen the movie twice now. I loved it to bits, and it's kind of influenced a little of my future choices regarding the arena and the Control Room etc. But the plan is still basically the same.<strong>

**I don't know how long the next chapter will take—it's the middle of the mid-semester assessment season. Please continue to be patient with me. -cringes- I will endeavour to finish this story.**

**It's not really nice of me to say that after ending it on a cliffhanger, is it?**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are love.**

**Sparkly Faerie**


	8. Chapter Eight

**Oh. My. God.**

**You guys! You guys! I love you guys!**

**Forty-two reviews for Chapter Seven! Wow! I wasn't expecting _anything_ like that! And this story has become my second-most alerted, and third most favourited, hit and reviewed! I have stars in my eyes I'm so happy!**

**I'm _so sorry_ for leaving it this long. I never meant to, but life gets in the way. And I apologise for the crappy quality of this chapter—particularly the end. I've written a good chunk of it while I'm really, _really_ tired, so if Katniss goes OOC at all, that's why.**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own The Hunger Games or anything associated with it. All rights to The Hunger Games and affiliated products belong to Susanne Collins, Lionsgate, and the other proper entities.

**Summary:** In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.

**Rating:** T (For now)

**Genre:** Action/Drama/Romance

**Pairing: **Katniss/Peeta

**Warnings:** Extreme violence. Death.

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><p><strong>Recap:<strong>

_After clearing the grassy area, to the east, there's a desert-type area, with small oases dotted throughout for water. The south is a rocky tumble, without water sources—except, it's raining, and I have a feeling it will continue to rain for quite some time. To the north, beyond the lake, and the west, is a thick, dense forest. Tucked away in the north-east and south-west corners of the Arena are mountains—the first a snow-capped one, lightly snowing. The other looks like a normal mountain, but this is a Quell. I can't help but feel that there's more danger there than it's letting on._

"_What do you think of the map?" I turn to ask Haymitch, raising my voice a little to make myself heard over the headphones. "What is it?"_

_Haymitch has picked up some kind of portable touch screen and he's using his finger to scroll through the list on it. "Look at the Cornucopia." He says shortly, not lifting his eyes. I obey._

_And my blood runs cold._

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><p><strong>Flares<strong>

**Chapter Eight**

Oh, no.

This is just cruel. I mean, worse than normal.

It's immediately obvious what it was that Haymitch wanted me to see on screen. The golden, curved horn is, as always, spilling forth supplies for the Tributes to fight over. Food, equipment, blankets, medicines, spare clothing…

But no weapons.

"There's no weapons on the gift list, either." Haymitch puts the portable screen on the desk between us and scrolls through it for me to see. "They categorise everything. Food, survival gear, shelter, medicine—but there's no weapon category this year. Not even a knife." We both look back up to the televised screen just in time to see the first of the tributes rising into position.

"They want them to kill each other with their bare hands." I breathe. Of course, this is always a possibility in the Games—broken necks, strangulation, suffocation, bludgeoning—but the majority of Tributes' kills are done with weapons. There's always something brutally bloody about bare-handed kills. I've seen more than a few over the years, but the thought of watching a Games with nothing but those types of fights and natural deaths leaves me feeling cold inside.

"Looks like it." Haymitch grimaces. "They like to make the Quells go for as long as possible. And look at the map of the arena." He nods to the monitor displaying the layout. "There's food and water sources everywhere. No one's going to starve or dehydrate in this Games."

"So unless there's mutts in there… the tributes' biggest threats are each other."

"Exactly." Haymitch runs a hand down his face. "This is gonna be the longest Games we've had in a long time."

* * *

><p>The Tributes are rising into place as we talk and worry. We quickly see the pattern to it—with three from each District, the Gamemakers seem to be trying to be fair and have separated them. Starting at the mouth of the horn and working clockwise, the platforms start at District One and run, in order, all the way to District Twelve, where Ryan is standing. The order is repeated again, until it reaches Cole, exactly twelve spaces away from Ryan, and again until it reaches Peeta, equidistant from both Ryan and Cole.<p>

That means that all three of our boys are next to a District One career.

Haymitch and I fall silent as the last Tribute is raised into place, watching the screen. We plug our headphones in and listen to the commentary.

"Aaand here we are, folks! The start of the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, and the Third Quarter Quell. And look at these Tributes. I think they're noticing exactly what's waiting for them at the horn."

He's not wrong. You can see on the faces of the Tributes that they're either immensely relieved or immensely perturbed by the lack of weapons in the arena. I'm so focussed on trying to read Ryan (relieved) and Peeta (confused), that I almost miss it before it happens.

_**BOOM!**_

"_And there goes the simple boy from District Eleven. Guess no one explained the rules to him."_ The commentator laughs.

Shaking, I take a deep breath and watch the televised screen, which is showing a slow-motion repeat in a smaller box in the corner of the screen while the countdown continues. The simple boy from District Eleven, the one who'd cried for his mother, had seen the massive food stocks and had stepped off the plate, setting off the landmines. Bits of him had rained down on Cole and one of the boys from District Ten, both of whom are still reeling from the explosion when the gong sounds.

And suddenly the screen is all chaos, with boys rushing forward toward the cornucopia. Eyes flicking between Peeta, Ryan, Cole and the televised broadcast, I'm suddenly so overwhelmed and sick that I think I'm going to pass out. How has Haymitch survived this long on his own?

My question is answered by the clink of glass on glass as Haymitch pours two glasses of liquor.

He hands me the smaller one. "Trust me, you'll need it." He grunts.

I accept the glass, but put it on the desk in front of me. Haymitch can have it when he finishes his.

* * *

><p>In the end, the only blood at the bloodbath is a few busted lips and nosebleeds.<p>

It's always hard to see what's going on at the bloodbath, but this year, with less bodies dropping, the flurry of movement renders even the personalised feeds effectively useless. From what I can see, Cole has dived into the fray, brawling with two other boys for something or other. Ryan is the first to break free of the fight two minutes in, uninjured except for a large bruise forming on his left cheek—he sprints off into the grass and heads to the east, towards the desert, a backpack slung over one shoulder. I hope it's for enough for him to make it.

Peeta is the second of our boys to get loose, about ten minutes after Ryan, and I let out a breath. He's also got a backpack, as well as a half-gallon bottle clutched in one hand. He's limping slightly as he races away from the brawl and towards the north, where the forest is.

Cole eventually ducks out with a net wrapped around his shoulders, some fishing line and a bottle clutched in either hand, and sprints southwest, towards the mountain. Looking at the map, he'll eventually come to a river, meaning he'll have the chance to put his instruments to use very soon. But he has no bag, nor any other kind of survival gear, and I can't help but sigh.

"_It looks like some of the Tributes are making solid choices this year."_ The commentator natters away in my ears over the sounds of the fighting. _"Already we see the usual alliance of Districts One, Two and Four; it'll be interesting to see how the nine boys get along without any girls to keep them from tearing each other apart this year. As we all know, testosterone tends to run high in the main pack, and in the past it's only been the level-headed interference of female tributes that have kept alliances together."_

Good, let them fall apart.

It's mid-afternoon when the Career pack eventually finish stacking their supplies and move away for the hovercrafts to collect the bodies. Haymitch and I pull off our headphones as the cannons fire, signalling the death of five tributes, counting the boy from District Eleven who stepped on the mines. We get a shot of each of the eliminated tributes as their lifted into the air. One quite clearly has a broken neck, two of them have nasty looking blows to the head. The final one looks slightly purple, the bruises around his neck giving away that he'd been strangled.

I wrap my arms around myself and close my eyes while they remove what's left of the boy from Eleven. I wish I were home. I wish I could hold my sister and bury my face in her hair, pretending to comfort her while I keep my eyes off what's happening on the screen. But here I can't even turn away from the monitors—the Gamemakers are just on the other side of a pane of glass; me getting up and walking away could have consequences, and I wont do anything to jeopardize what little safety my family has.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks in a small voice, knocking back the rest of his drink and reaching for the one he handed me.

"No."

He awkwardly pats me on the shoulder. "Just ride it out." He advises me. "You can sleep first tonight. I'll take the first shift on the screens."

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep, anyway." I admit.

Haymitch only grunts in response.

* * *

><p>The rest of the afternoon is uneventful. Haymitch shows me how the gifting system works, and we regularly check in on the tributes. Peeta reaches the woods about half an hour before sunset, and as found a sturdy-looking cave. He hasn't found water yet, but it's nearby—he's not in any danger of dehydration. Right now, he's weaving camouflage to hide the mouth of the cave, much like I did last year.<p>

"He's better at it than you were." Haymitch remarks lightly. It's not funny, but I laugh. It's actually true.

Ryan still hasn't cleared the grass, which I'm slightly thankful for. There's no cover in the desert for at least an hour, and the temperature gauge for that part of the arena is dropping rapidly. At least, in the grass, he'll have cover from the prying eyes of Career tributes, who are grabbing flashlights and are marching off toward the south. He's sitting on a large rock and is going through his backpack, pulling out a sleeping bag and lying it on the ground while he sorts through his other supplies.

Cole veered north about halfway to the river, possibly hoping to throw the Careers off his trail. He's muttering to himself as he practically rips clumps of grass out of the ground, leaving a distinct trail in his wake.

"Not very bright, is he?" Haymitch sighs. "It's like he didn't listen to a single thing all week."

"I need to use the bathroom." I say instead of answering, standing abruptly. "I'll be back in about half an hour. I'm gonna stretch my legs, too."

"Alright. I'll be here." Haymitch nods, turning his eyes from screen to screen.

I flee the room, practically waddling my way to the lavatory on stiff legs. I've never sat so long in one place before, and my legs are aching. What I really want to do is get outside and climb a tree, but somehow I doubt they'd let me do that. I'll have to settle for climbing the ladder to the top bunk in a few hours.

I push open the door to the ladies' room and come face to face with three women that I vaguely recognise from the first day in the Remake Centre. My mind feels wrung like a sponge, though, and I can't call their names to mind. They ignore me and natter on as they touch up their appearances in the mirror, and I push my way into a stall and latch the door behind me before relieving myself.

"Evening, Johanna." I hear one of the women drawl as the door opens and footsteps come into the room.

"Cashmere." Johanna replies stiffly, with no trace of the affectionate scorn she'd addressed the rest of us with at the Remake Centre on Opening Day.

"We were just talking about you." Cashmere lies. "Well, one of your tributes. Isn't that scrawny little one your brother's friend's kid? Isn't that family the closest thing you have to one of your own, these days?"

"Yes." Johanna bites, and I hear the tension in her voice.

"How long do you think he'll last? One day? Two? Quite frankly I'm surprised he survived the bloodbath. But then, no weapons means it's easier for the small ones to slip away."

I quickly flush the toilet and push the stall door open, surprising all four of them. I don't say anything, don't look at them. But I feel all four sets of eyes on me as I wash my hands. "Afternoon, Katniss."

"Afternoon." My voice breaks a little as I greet Cashmere with a slight nod and flee the room. Behind me, I hear Johanna slam a cubicle door as the restroom door swings shut behind me.

I wander the large, blue-and-white corridor. The blue carpet beneath my bare feet (I'd kicked off my shoes sometime after the bloodbath) is plush and soft, almost slippery under my skin. I don't like it. It feels like the mossy growth on the forest floor after a bout of rain. That feeling does not belong in these halls. The workings behind the Games should simply be sold, detached, clinical and as uncomfortable as possible.

The numbers on the doors set in the inner wall mark the control rooms for each District. I start to count them, but quickly lose interest. Instead, I wander aimlessly, following the mind-numbing circular path designated by the Gamemakers for the Mentors to exercise and stretch their legs.

"Afternoon, District Twelve." A voice registers, breaking my almost-numb stupor. I turn to the source, blinking a few times and shaking my head a little to clear it. "We've seen you walk past about three times now. Lost?" He winks.

"I'm fine, thanks Finnick." I shrug. "Just walking."

"Mm, I feel like a stroll, myself." He pokes his head back into the room behind him, stamped with a big, black number '_4_' on the door. "Mags, I'm just gonna step out for a while. Need anything?" A moment of silence—I'm guessing Mags, whoever she is, is either ignoring him or simply shaking her head. "Alright. I'll be back in a little while." He pulls his head out again. "Lead the way then, Miss Everdeen."

I set off again, feeling more than a little uncomfortable with Finnick next to me. Sure, he's been nice enough so far—but he's still a Career. I watch him out of the corner of my eye—beautiful in even the cold, unflattering fluorescent lights—and think of the Games ten years ago; in my mind, I see Finnick netting and spearing the other tributes with his trident. I see him on Caesar's stage, smiling despite the mindless slaughter he'd just been forced to participate in. Being this close to him is making my skin crawl. But then, I don't really have the right to feel this way, considering I got here exactly the same way that he did. The same way that every single one of the other mentors did.

The same way that whoever wins this year's games will have made it here, next year. Whoever he will be.

"Have they showed you the Mess Hall, yet?" Finnick asks conversationally, breaking the silence. I shake my head. "Ah. Well, c'mon. I feel like stuffing my face. You?"

"Not really, no." I say, but follow him anyway.

* * *

><p>"And this is where I leave you, Miss Everdeen." Finnick makes an over-exaggerated bow, complete with twirling hands and ridiculously bad Capitol accent. I raise an eyebrow, feeling the twitch of my lips but determined not to smile. "And shall I have the pleasure of your… <em>stimulating<em> company over the breakfast table?"

"We'll see, Odair." I shrug noncommittally.

"I'll collect you at seven sharp, then." He winks, straightening up. "Make sure you wake Haymitch by six, though. It takes him an hour to wake up enough to watch the Arena. Effie complains about it every year." He explains, seeing my raised eyebrows. "Night."

"Night, Finnick. Thanks for dinner."

"Any time." He gives me a two-fingered salute and turns to hurry back to his station. I press the door open gently, knowing fully well that I've been at least twice as long as I said I would be.

"You're late."

"Sorry." I shrug. "Finnick Odair ambushed me."

Haymitch glares at me for a few moments, before shrugging and turning back to the monitors. Just like that, my good mood evaporates. Finnick had been telling me childhood stories and crazy jokes for the last forty minutes or so, almost making me forget just what was going on above our heads in the Arena. Now that I'm back in the monitoring station, it's like the last hour never happened. The snakes are back in my stomach—and they've invited friends. "Did I miss anything?"

"The careers have climbed a small bluff in the forest, about twenty feet from Peeta's cave, but that was ten minutes ago. They're nowhere near him now." He leans back in his chair. "Other than that, not much. They'll be playing the recap soon." He stands. "I need to take a piss. Watch them for about ten minutes."

I settle back into my chair and slip my headphones on. It's almost completely dark now; Peeta and Ryan have both crawled into their sleeping bags. Cole has curled up behind some rocks near the riverbank—they offer concealment from all sides, but he'll be freezing cold all night. The temptation to light a fire will be huge for him, but hopefully he has the sense not to.

It's the televised screen I'm watching, though. The careers have split into two groups, and are chasing a young boy up a trail in the forest, at the end of which is a low cliff. It's nothing like the huge mountains on opposite ends of the Arena, but it's high enough to give you a bit of vertigo, I'd imagine. As the camera pans around to show the viewers the steepness of the drop, the commentators buzz away in my ear.

"_And Rye McDonald of District Eleven is herded to the edge of the bluff by the two separate inter-district alliance groups. It's not looking good for him, is it Sliver?"_

"_No it's not, Jewels. Now, all they need to do is step into the open, and…! There they go!"_

The nine boys from Districts One, Two and Four form a semicircle around the boy from District Eleven, leaving him no way out but the twenty-foot drop. He's looking around frantically; you can see the terror on his face. He makes an attempt to get between the two smallest Careers, but they catch him and throw him backwards. It's like some sickening kind of hunting ritual. The Careers slowly inch around so that they've completely encircled the boy, who is now begging them to let him go.

The apparent leader—a burly eighteen year old from District One—cracks his knuckles and laughs, before throwing the first punch.

In the end, it's brutal. They all attack the young boy from Eleven at once, raining blows with fists and feet all over his body. After a while, the boy's cries go quiet and they continue to pummel him, drawing blood from his mouth and nose. One of the Careers has found a small branch, and has started to bludgeon the boy with it. I screw my eyes shut and clutch my headphones with enough force to make my fingers go white as the dull '_thud_'s go on and on and on in my ears.

Haymitch walks back into the room just as the cannon fires.

* * *

><p><strong>Bleh. Crappy chapter is crappy.<strong>

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**Until next time,**

**Sparkly Faerie**


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